Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stars hung low over the scarred remains of Cybertron, a muted tapestry of cold metal and distant echoes of battles long past. Silence spread like a heavy blanket, broken only by the occasional hum of a patrol drone or the distant flicker of a dying power core. Optimus Prime moved slowly through the wasteland, alone on his routine patrol — a solitary sentinel in a world torn apart by endless war.

For decades, the war had defined them: Autobot against Decepticon, light against darkness. Yet in this moment, far from the chaos of battle, the memories came rushing back like a tidal wave. Memories of a time before the war—a time when Orion Pax and D-16 were not yet the hardened leaders they’d become, but something altogether more fragile and honest.

Optimus paused on a ridge overlooking the ruined cityscape, his optics scanning the horizon. Then, from the shadows, a familiar silhouette emerged—imposing, formidable, but somehow softer in this twilight. Megatron.

Neither spoke at first. The weight of their shared history hung thick between them, unspoken and undeniable.

“Orion,” Megatron’s voice was rough but carried a hint of something softer beneath the steel. “I never thought I’d see you here… not like this.”

Optimus regarded him steadily. “Neither did I, D-16.”

A small, almost wistful smile flickered across Megatron’s face. “The names we once had. Were we really that different?”

For a long moment, they simply stood there, two old souls caught in the ruin of their own making.

Then Optimus’s voice softened. “Not really. We were… more.”

Megatron’s optics glimmered in the dark. “More than enemies. More than leaders. We were… friends. Lovers.”

The confession, once taboo, now felt like a fragile bridge across a chasm of pain.

Optimus took a step closer. “The war took that from us. But maybe… tonight, we can remember.”

Under the blanket of stars, their conversation unfolded like a delicate dance, each word unraveling years of silence, regret, and longing.

The night grew deep, and with it, a rekindling of a bond thought lost. Interface after interface, they touched upon memories of a shared past—secret missions, quiet moments between battles, and whispered promises.

By dawn, the war felt distant. There, in the quiet aftermath of their reunion, a new spark ignited—one neither expected but both desperately needed.

A small, shining spark born from that night would soon take form in a small aerialbot with curious optics and a gleaming frame.

But for now, it was just two souls, reunited by fate, sharing one last night of peace before the war’s cold embrace would claim them once more.

The distant hum of Cybertron’s dying atmosphere was a soft reminder of the world they once knew, now shattered and fragmented. Optimus Prime lowered his gaze for a moment, taking in the familiar yet changed figure before him. Megatron stood tall and proud, the battle scars etching stories across his frame, but those optics—those unmistakable optics—held something deeper than anger or rivalry.

“Why now?” Optimus asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “After all these cycles, why do you seek me out here, alone?”

Megatron’s gaze drifted upward toward the stars. “I could ask the same. Maybe it’s the loneliness that’s been building, or perhaps it’s the part of me that still remembers who I was... who we were.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them like an unspoken agreement. Neither wanted to shatter the fragile calm. Instead, they allowed themselves to be vulnerable — two former friends and lovers, caught in a moment suspended out of time.

Optimus took a slow step forward, the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing on his shoulders. “I never stopped thinking about you. Even when the war made it impossible, even when the world demanded we hate each other.”

Megatron’s optics flickered with a strange light, a mixture of pain and longing. “I tried to forget. I told myself it was necessary… that the war needed a clear enemy. But in the quiet moments—when I was alone—I heard your voice. I felt your spark.”

The memory was bittersweet. They had once been so close—confidants, partners in hope and vision—before the gears of fate had ground them apart.

Optimus’s voice grew softer. “Do you remember that night on Iacon? Before the war broke out, before we took up arms, when we shared that moment in the stars?”

Megatron nodded slowly. “I remember it like it was yesterday. The way your spark shimmered against the darkness. The promise we made to each other...”

“Not just as allies,” Optimus said, a gentle smile touching his lips. “But as something more. Something real.”

The tension between them was palpable, the years of conflict and distance collapsing into a single moment of truth.

Megatron’s voice was raw. “I’ve wanted to come back to you for so long… but fear kept me away. Fear of rejection, fear of the war’s endless cycle.”

Optimus reached out, hesitating for the briefest instant before his hand found Megatron’s arm, a touch that spoke volumes beyond words.

“Tonight, let’s put aside the war,” he whispered. “Let’s remember who we were, and who we still could be.”

Megatron’s breath hitched—a rare vulnerability from the towering warrior.

Slowly, they moved closer, the cold air around them warming with the sparks of old passion reigniting. The night was theirs, stolen from the chaos of endless war, a fragile reprieve where two souls could reconnect.

Their interfaces touched, sending a ripple of electricity and memories through them both—moments of laughter, of quiet support, of whispered dreams long buried.

Optimus’s optics flickered as he remembered how Megatron’s touch had once brought peace amidst turmoil.

Megatron’s voice was low but certain. “I never stopped loving you, Orion.”

The name felt sacred on his lips.

And in that moment, under the shattered sky, they allowed themselves to fall into each other—rekindling a flame that war could never fully extinguish.

The night deepened around them, a cloak of stars shimmering faintly against the darkened sky. In this rare silence, away from the endless war and the burdens of their roles, Optimus Prime and Megatron stood side by side, two figures softened by time and memory.

Optimus inhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the faint glow of Cybertron’s core pulsed like a heartbeat. “It feels strange, doesn’t it? To stand here together, like old friends—no, more than that—like something we both thought lost.”

Megatron’s optics softened, the usual sharpness replaced by a quiet warmth. “I never stopped hoping for this moment, though I never dared believe it would come. The war… it took so much from us.”

Optimus nodded. “It took everything, but it didn’t erase what we shared.”

Their conversation floated gently between them, the weight of years folding away like the pages of a forgotten book reopened. Memories surfaced—shared secrets, stolen moments in the quiet hours before dawn, and the silent promise that they would find each other again.

Megatron turned, his gaze locking with Optimus’s. “Do you remember when we used to watch the stars? Before the war, before the names and titles... just Orion and D-16, two sparks reaching for something more.”

Optimus smiled faintly. “I remember. You showed me constellations I’d never noticed. You said every spark in the sky was a story, a promise.”

“And some promises,” Megatron said softly, “are harder to keep than others.”

Optimus stepped closer, his voice almost a whisper. “But maybe tonight, we can keep one. Just for a little while.”

Their hands brushed, an electric pulse traveling from one spark to the other—a reminder of their connection, unbroken despite the years and wounds.

Megatron’s voice dropped low, heavy with feeling. “I never stopped loving you, Orion. Not when I became Megatron. Not when the war forced us apart.”

Optimus reached out, gently tracing the line of Megatron’s jaw, his optics shimmering with emotion. “I never stopped loving you either.”

They moved together instinctively, as if drawn by a force stronger than war or duty. The past and present blurred, and in that moment, there was only the two of them—two sparks reignited, burning bright against the dark.

The night unfolded slowly, every touch and whisper a delicate weaving of trust and passion. They spoke in quiet tones, sharing fragments of their lives apart, their fears, and their hopes—finding solace in each other’s presence.

As the hours passed, they lay side by side beneath the fractured sky, the weight of their shared history settling between them like a soft embrace. No words were needed now; their interfaces intertwined, speaking the language of memories and longing.

For just one night, the war faded away. There was only the spark between them—pure, fragile, and infinite.

The first pale light of Cybertron’s dawn crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the ruined landscape. The cool morning air settled around them, a stark contrast to the warmth they’d shared through the night.

Optimus and Megatron lay side by side beneath the cracked remnants of a once-mighty citadel, their interfaces still softly connected in a fragile afterglow of what had been. But as the light grew stronger, the weight of reality pressed down upon them like an unyielding force.

Optimus was the first to break the silence. His voice was low, tinged with sadness. “This... this can’t last. We’re no longer who we were. The war has changed everything.”

Megatron’s optics flickered with pain, but he nodded. “Yes. We are enemies now. Leaders of opposing factions, bound by a conflict we cannot ignore.”

They turned to face each other, the intimacy of the night fading into the cold clarity of morning. Optimus’s hand lingered on Megatron’s arm for a brief moment before he slowly withdrew it.

“This was a mistake,” Optimus said quietly, his tone heavy with regret. “One night. Nothing more.”

Megatron swallowed hard, his usual commanding presence softened by vulnerability. “A mistake I won’t forget. But one that cannot be repeated.”

They both knew the truth—they could not risk their fragile moment of peace. The war demanded loyalty, sacrifice, and the destruction of everything they once held dear.

Optimus rose first, the weight of his duty settling back onto his shoulders. “We will meet again on the battlefield, Megatron. As enemies.”

Megatron stood as well, his gaze locked with Optimus’s one last time. “Until then, Orion… may your spark burn bright.”

Optimus gave a faint, bittersweet smile. “And yours, D-16.”

With that, they turned away, stepping into the dawn from opposite directions. The night’s warmth faded behind them, leaving only the cold silence of a war that would never truly end.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath the armor and the pain, a small spark flickered quietly—unseen and unknown, waiting for its time to shine.

Chapter Text

Weeks had passed since that stolen night, yet the war on Cybertron showed no mercy—only fire, metal, and ruin.

The battlefield stretched across a broken cityscape, shattered spires and cracked streets bathed in the sickly glow of energy blasts and burning wreckage. Thick plumes of smoke clawed at the sky, mingling with the ash of countless fallen.

The Autobots moved with relentless purpose, led by Optimus Prime himself. His optics burned bright, shining through the haze, every step a thunderous echo of leadership and hope. Behind him, his troops advanced in disciplined formation, their weapons primed and ready.

Opposing them were the Decepticons, fierce and unyielding. Among their ranks, the sharp screech of an aerial assault sliced the air—Thundercracker, soaring high with lethal grace, his twin ion cannons blazing death upon the ground below.

Megatron stood at the forefront of his forces, towering and merciless, commanding with iron will. His voice boomed over the din: “Destroy the Autobots! Let nothing remain!”

With a roar, the battle erupted.

Laser fire crisscrossed the battlefield—energy bolts tore through metal and earth alike. Explosions scattered debris like storm-driven leaves, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

Optimus dove behind a fractured wall, narrowly avoiding a salvo from Thundercracker’s cannons. “Autobots! Hold your ground! Don’t let them break through!”

Bumblebee zipped through the smoky chaos, weaving with agile precision as he engaged a pack of Decepticon foot soldiers. His blaster fired rapid bursts, each shot knocking enemies from the fight.

Above, Thundercracker circled relentlessly, mocking. “Your defenses are crumbling, Prime. Surrender now—spare yourself the pain.”

Optimus’s voice was steady, fierce. “Not while there’s spark in my body.”

The two leaders met at the heart of the battlefield, their weapons clashing with a shower of sparks. Megatron’s blows were brutal and unforgiving, meant to dominate and destroy. Optimus responded with strategic strikes, his sword flashing with practiced skill.

Around them, the war swirled.

Ratchet hurried from wounded to wounded, deploying med-bots to patch armor and revive systems. “Stay alive! We hold this line!”

Knockout advanced with a malicious grin, disabling an Autobot turret with ruthless efficiency. “They’ll fall apart soon enough.”

Suddenly, plasma cannon fire cut through the fray, blasting several Decepticons to scrap—Ironhide had arrived, his heavy artillery a beacon of hope. “This planet isn’t yours for the taking.”

The battlefield became a tempest of steel and sparks—limbs torn asunder, systems faltering and rebooting amid chaos.

At the center, Optimus and Megatron fought not just for victory, but for the fate of their divided world.

Optimus’s voice rang out, rallying his troops. “For Cybertron! For freedom!”

Megatron snarled in defiance. “For power! For domination!”

Their battle echoed through the ruined city, a brutal symphony of war.

The battle raged on, a whirlwind of fire and steel tearing through the scarred ruins of Cybertron. Yet beneath the thunderous clash and the roar of weapons, something was shifting within Optimus Prime.

A subtle falter. A growing unease that gnawed beneath his armor.

At first, it was just a flicker of discomfort—a tightening in his optic sensors, a brief lag in his reflexes. But as the minutes dragged on, the strain grew heavier.

Optimus staggered slightly, barely catching himself on a jagged pillar. His energon reserves flickered erratically. The sharp pain that bloomed deep inside his spark was unlike anything he had ever felt in battle.

But he swallowed the warning. There was no time to yield. No place for weakness.

He forced himself forward, sword raised high, rallying his troops with a voice steady and resolute.

“Autobots! Push forward! Hold the line at all costs!”

He plunged back into the heart of the fray, ignoring the sharp sting that echoed through his core with every movement. Each strike he delivered carried a growing weight, each parry required twice the effort. But Optimus Prime refused to falter.

Around him, his troops fought fiercely, unaware of the turmoil within their leader.

Thundercracker dove from above, launching a barrage that struck near Optimus’s flank. The blast sent him crashing against a shattered wall, the shock reverberating painfully through his frame.

Optimus gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright, shaking off the haze creeping at the edges of his vision.

“No... not now,” he muttered, voice tight with determination.

Megatron advanced with brutal force, sensing the opening. “Your strength wanes, Prime. Surrender and end your suffering.”

But Optimus would not relent. He met Megatron’s charge with a furious strike, sparks flying as their blades met. The pain coursing through his systems screamed at him to retreat—to rest—but his spirit refused.

The war was bigger than any one mech, bigger than his own pain.

He had to hold.

Every movement became a battle against himself as much as against his enemy. His limbs burned with exhaustion; his circuits flickered with warning. Yet, the fire in his spark only grew fiercer.

For Cybertron.

For his people.

For the hope that still flickered beneath the smoke and ruin.

But deep inside, a silent question whispered:

How long could he keep fighting like this before the weight of it all finally broke him?

The battlefield was a raging storm of destruction, but the tide began to shift—not because of a new weapon or a cunning strategy—but because of the unyielding loyalty of the Autobots to their leader.

Among the fierce clamor of clashing metal and exploding energon, Bumblebee’s keen optics caught something troubling—Optimus Prime faltering beneath the weight of the fight. The usually indomitable leader was slower to parry, his stance wavering like a tree bending in a harsh wind.

“Prime!” Bumblebee called out urgently, darting toward him.

Ratchet, ever watchful, noticed too. “He’s pushing beyond his limits. We need to protect him—now!”

With a roar, Ironhide slammed into the frontline, his heavy form barreling through Decepticon ranks to shield Optimus. “You’re not falling today, big guy. Not on my watch.”

One by one, the Autobots shifted their focus, forming a protective barrier around their faltering leader. Jazz, Arcee, and Bulkhead coordinated their movements, driving back the Decepticons with renewed vigor.

The battlefield trembled under this new assault, the Autobots pressing forward with desperate strength, buying Optimus the precious moments he needed.

Megatron’s optics narrowed, fury flashing through his systems as he saw his enemy’s forces begin to overwhelm. “Fall back! Fall back, before we lose everything!”

“Retreat! Retreat!” his voice thundered, a harsh command that sent Decepticons scrambling to regroup.

With the Decepticons pulling back, the battered Autobots gained ground—pushing forward steadily through the smoke and rubble.

As the dust settled, Optimus steadied himself, raising his voice to reassure his team. “I’m... fine. Thank you, all of you.”

But before he could take another step, a sudden weakness overtook him. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud, the world around him blurring into darkness.

“Prime!” Bumblebee and Ratchet rushed to his side, catching him before he hit the cracked pavement.

Optimus’s optics dimmed slowly as unconsciousness claimed him, but a faint spark of hope lingered deep within.

The war was far from over—but for now, his brave team stood ready to carry the fight.

The hum of the Autobot base was quiet, but inside the medical wing, tension crackled like static.

Optimus Prime lay on the med-bed, systems slowly rebooting, his optics fluttering open to dim lights and the concerned gaze of Ratchet. The medic’s usual calm demeanor was replaced by something heavier—an unspoken worry weighing on his spark.

“Optimus,” Ratchet said softly, voice more serious than usual, “you’re awake.”

Optimus blinked, still weak, but aware enough to notice the gravity in Ratchet’s tone. “Ratchet... what happened?”

Ratchet hesitated, then pulled a datapad toward him. The screen glowed softly in the dim room.

“This,” Ratchet said, “is something... unexpected. Something I didn’t want to believe at first.”

Optimus’s optics narrowed as he studied the data—logs, readings, bio-signatures. And then, one word stood out:

Sparkled.

“You’re sparkled,” Ratchet explained carefully. “Something happened during the battle. A rare energon phenomenon... it’s a sign of a new spark signature—different from any we’ve seen.”

Optimus absorbed the news, mind racing. The weight of what it could mean settled in his chestplate. Sparkled—something more than just damage or injury. Something... profound.

Ratchet’s gaze never wavered. “It could explain your sudden weakness. Your systems are... adapting to the change.”

Optimus sat up slowly, trying to grasp the full implications. “What does this mean for me? For the war?”

Ratchet’s answer was sober but hopeful. “It means your spark is changing. And that change could be the key to everything we fight for... or the greatest challenge yet.”

Silence filled the room as Optimus stared at the glowing datapad, the sparkled signature pulsing faintly on the screen—an unknown future shimmering before him.

The Autobot base was quiet, the usual bustle of strategizing and repairing paused as Optimus Prime, still leaning heavily on Ratchet for support, made his way to the central briefing room. The walls were lined with glowing data screens, but nothing could outshine the tension that filled the air.

Optimus’s optics scanned the faces of his team assembled before him—Bumblebee, Arcee, Bulkhead, Jazz, Ironhide, and others—each showing concern etched deep in their features. They knew something was wrong. The battle, his sudden collapse, the hushed conversations in the medical wing… all had whispered secrets no warrior wanted to keep.

He took a deep breath, a slow, deliberate act that steadied his voice. “Friends. Allies. I have something I must tell you.”

Ratchet stood beside him, his hand on Optimus’s shoulder, a pillar of steady support amid the storm of emotions.

Optimus continued, voice clear but laced with vulnerability. “During my last solo patrol… I encountered Megatron. It was not what you might expect. And in the aftermath of that night, something changed within me.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

“I have become sparkled.”

A hush fell over the room.

Bulkhead’s brows furrowed. “Sparkled? What does that mean for you, Prime?”

Optimus’s optics flickered with the struggle of accepting this truth aloud. “It means my spark has shifted in a way unlike any before. Ratchet found the readings… he knows what this could mean.”

Ratchet stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Sparkled energy is rare, unpredictable. It can be a source of strength… or a vulnerability. Right now, Optimus is adapting. It taxes his systems and spirit alike.”

Jazz’s usually calm face showed a flicker of worry. “You’re telling us this now because…?”

“Because I cannot hide it from you. Not when it affects the war, our mission, our lives. I need your trust. Your support.” Optimus’s voice carried the heavy burden of leadership mixed with a rare openness.

Arcee’s voice was gentle but firm. “You’re still Optimus. Sparkled or not. We fight with you, not just because you’re a leader, but because you’re one of us.”

Bumblebee’s optics shone with unwavering loyalty. “You’re our Prime. No change in your spark will change that.”

But Ironhide’s expression was grim. “This could be dangerous—for all of us. Megatron will use it against you if he knows.”

Ratchet nodded. “Which is why it stays between us for now. Only those who need to know.”

Optimus met Ironhide’s gaze. “I will not let this endanger the team. But I must be honest about my condition. The battle showed my limits.”

The team exchanged looks, emotions flickering in the air—fear, hope, uncertainty.

Bulkhead finally broke the silence, voice resolute. “Then we fight smarter, cover your back. We’ve faced worse.”

Jazz gave a tight nod. “We’ve got your spark, Prime. Always.”

Optimus allowed himself a faint smile, grateful yet weighed down by the road ahead. “Thank you. Your faith means more than you know.”

Ratchet stepped closer, voice soft but commanding. “Prime, you will need rest, recalibration. But this spark… it could also bring new strength. We must be patient.”

Arcee leaned forward, eyes fierce. “We’ll adapt. We’ll protect you.”

Bumblebee’s tone was quiet but fierce. “Together.”

The room brimmed with a mix of resolve and tension, the Autobots rallying around their leader not just as soldiers, but as a family facing an uncertain future.

Optimus drew a steadying breath. “For Cybertron. For all of us.”

The team echoed, a chorus of unity.

“Together.”

Chapter Text

Time passed slowly in the Autobot base—not for lack of urgency in the world outside, but because within its walls, something extraordinary was happening.

Optimus Prime no longer walked the battlefield.

Where once he led the charge with strength and thunder, now he moved gently through the halls of their base, his steps careful, his frame gradually changing. No longer clad in the rigid, commanding stature of a warrior, his chassis began to soften, his plating shifting subtly at first—rounding at the abdominal seams, weight collecting in places it never had before. Energon flowed differently within him, focused, concentrated.

And with each passing cycle, the Autobots noticed.

They watched with quiet reverence how their once-fearless commander moved slower, how his systems shifted around the developing spark within. No one commented rudely. No one joked or questioned. Instead, they surrounded him with calm, patience, and above all—devotion.

Ratchet remained his primary caretaker, ever vigilant. Daily scans, energon balance monitoring, emotional support—it became his life’s focus. He had always patched the Prime together with grit and skill, but now his hands worked with something closer to tenderness, as if he were safeguarding the future of their world within Optimus’s frame.

“Everything’s stable,” Ratchet would report each evening, resting a hand on Optimus’s shoulder. “You’re carrying it well.”

The child—still unborn, still a mystery—was a whisper of something more than hope. It was proof that Cybertron’s legacy had not ended. That creation was still possible, even in the bleakness of war.

Prowl had stepped in as acting field leader. He was firm and precise, not nearly as warm as Optimus, but the Autobots respected him and knew he led only until their true Prime could return.

“I’ll handle the front,” Prowl had said the day he took over. “You take care of yourself, sir. That’s an order.”

Optimus had tried to protest. It was in his nature to protect, to stand between danger and his team. But the truth was inescapable—he could no longer be on the frontlines. The spark growing inside him demanded something he had never given himself: peace. So he helped in other ways—strategizing, reviewing reports, supporting his team from within. He remained the voice of calm in chaos, the guiding star of the Autobots even as his body bent inward, sheltering the life blooming inside.

The base transformed with him. The others began leaving energon treats outside his quarters. Bumblebee would bring small trinkets or scan readings for his amusement. Arcee made time to sit with him, no words needed between them—only the comfort of being present. Bulkhead, who wasn’t exactly subtle, sometimes offered to carry him if he looked tired, prompting a small smile from the Prime. Even Ironhide, gruff and stoic, started quietly checking in more often than necessary, always grumbling, “Just doing rounds.”

As the cycles passed, Optimus’s abdomen rounded visibly, heavy with the presence of the sparkling within. His plating expanded gently, sometimes uncomfortably, his energon flow adapting again and again to accommodate the new life. There were aches and exhaustion, moments where the weight of it all pressed him down, and still he bore it with the same quiet strength that had once led armies.

And when the Autobots looked at him, they didn’t see someone weak. They saw a miracle in the making.

“Every time I see him,” Bumblebee whispered one evening, watching Optimus rest, “I believe in peace again.”

“Yeah,” Arcee replied quietly. “He’s giving us all a reason to keep fighting.”

Even the war felt… different. Though Decepticons still raided cities and clashed with Prowl’s units, there was something unshakable in the Autobots’ morale now. They were protecting more than just the planet. They were protecting a future Prime. Or perhaps, someone who would transcend the war entirely.

The sparkling had no name yet. No form they could see. But sometimes, in the dead of night, when Optimus sat alone in the comms room with his hand resting on his abdomen, he would feel the quiet flicker of movement inside. A flutter. A pulse of warmth.

And for a moment, even Optimus forgot the weight of the world.

The war had not paused. Battles still erupted across shattered terrain. Sky scorched with heat from engines and cannons. Steel met steel with a screech of desperation and fury. But something had changed.

The Prime was gone.

Megatron felt it first—not as panic, but as a quiet echo of absence. The frontlines, once defined by the towering silhouette of Optimus Prime leading the Autobots like a wall of willpower, now surged without him. Prowl led the enemy ranks with strategy, yes—but no fire, no soul, no thunderous presence that could rattle Decepticons to their spark.

Weeks passed. Then months.

No Prime.

And yet… the Autobots held strong. They did not falter in formation or morale. They did not crumble without their leader’s voice. Instead, they fought with strange clarity. With something to protect.

Megatron stood atop the spire of Darkmount, gazing across the craggy wasteland through the crimson-tinted glass. “There is no logic in this,” he murmured. “Without Prime, the Autobots should be weaker. Disoriented. Yet they move as if bolstered.”

“Affirmative,” Shockwave replied, stepping up beside him. “I have compiled data from recent engagements. The Autobots’ efficiency has increased by 13.5% in the past two months.”

Megatron narrowed his optics. “Explain.”

“I believe Prime is absent from the battlefield due to incapacitation.”

Megatron turned slowly. “You believe he is dead?”

Shockwave tilted his helm. “No. Were he deceased, the Autobots would be in mourning. Their leadership would be fractured. Instead, they move with cohesion. I hypothesize that Prime is alive—but not combat-capable.”

Silence hung heavy.

Soundwave stepped forward next, a faint ripple of static surrounding him. The screen on his chest blinked softly as surveillance logs, intercepted transmissions, and audio clips played back at lightning speed. Most of them were useless—Autobots sharing reports, engineers requesting parts, Bumblebee grumbling about something broken. But one thing was clear:

Nothing. Not a single transmission from or about Optimus Prime.

“Their encryption changed,” Soundwave emitted in a metallic voice, filtered and cold. “Private channels rerouted. Medical logs—gone. Prime’s signature: masked.”

Megatron clenched a fist.

“They are hiding something,” he growled. “And Soundwave, if you cannot uncover it—then it must be significant.”

Soundwave did not flinch. He merely turned, hands clasped behind his back, and resumed his silent tracking.

But what Soundwave had detected, buried in the background of a supply manifest, was far more telling than words.

Energon extraction rates had surged.

A mine that once output thirty crates per rotation was now yielding nearly double. The dates aligned with the timeline of Prime’s absence. And the Autobots, despite increased battle pressure, were not showing signs of strain. No shortages. No cuts to auxiliary systems.

Just… quiet, focused effort.

“Their energon withdrawal exceeds operational necessity,” Shockwave said coldly. “Statistically, they are not fueling a campaign. They are feeding something—or someone.”

Megatron stood very still.

The pieces fell into place.

“Prime,” he muttered. “He is not gone. He is protected.”

A low hum filled the air.

Shockwave’s optics pulsed as he proposed the final theory: “He is unwell. Or recovering from injury. Possibly undergoing critical changes. The Autobots are concealing his status to protect morale—and they are winning.”

Megatron’s hands trembled slightly at his sides, not from fear—but from a strange, rising sense of unease. Something in his spark ached with the knowledge. Optimus… not gone, not defeated… just out of reach. Being nurtured.

Even now, separated by war and ideology, Megatron could feel the void left by the Prime's absence.

He had always known how to fight Prime. How to strike and parry his words. How to brace against his blade and match his wrath. But this? This silence, this veiled mystery—he could not prepare for what he could not see.

Soundwave’s screen flickered once again. In a faint audio file, Arcee’s voice came through, cracked with static:

“Keep the medical wing secure. Ratchet doesn’t want anyone near his patient without clearance.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“Patient.”

There it was again—that strange ache in his core. He turned to Soundwave.

“Find me more,” he ordered, voice like thunder in a storm. “Track every supply run. Every change in their rotations. If they are hiding Optimus Prime, then we will uncover the truth and strike where they are weakest.”

Shockwave nodded. “If Prime is unfit for battle, now is the time to press our advantage.”

But Megatron did not answer immediately.

His thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

To a night he had tried to forget. To warm fingers. Quiet murmurs. The way Optimus had leaned into him—not as a soldier, but as something else. And now… now the Prime had vanished from the battlefield, but not from his thoughts.

Not from his spark.

Something more than strategy was at play here. Something that clawed at Megatron's instincts and refused to let go.

Whatever the Autobots were hiding… it mattered.

And Megatron would have it—no matter what it cost.

Chapter Text

The halls of the Autobot base had grown quieter in recent cycles. Not from the absence of energy—but from a change in rhythm. A gentler tempo settled between the cold metal walls. Conversations were softer, movements more mindful, and even the hum of the base systems seemed attuned to the shift.

At the center of that change was Optimus Prime.

Once the immovable pillar on the frontlines, he now remained within the sanctuary of his quarters and the medical wing. Not by choice, but necessity. Though he still offered guidance, reviewed reports, and kept his presence strong in leadership, his chassis bore the gentle curve of a creator-in-waiting.

The sparkling inside him was growing.

Optimus lay partially reclined on his berth, one servo resting protectively on his lower frame. His usually stoic face had softened—just slightly. A distant look settled in his optics, a blend of awe, concern, and something ancient that only time and spark-bonded experience could etch into a mech's expression.

Then, it happened.

A thump.

A second.

Sharp, defined kicks from within.

His optics widened with stunned silence. Another kick followed, firmer this time—almost defiant. His intake caught as a pulse surged through his spark. A startled, breathless ex-vent escaped him.

"...he moved," he murmured.

The door hissed open as Ratchet entered with his ever-present datapad, his scowl already half-formed. “You're late on your mineral intake again, aren’t y—what’s wrong?”

Optimus glanced up, optics brighter than moments before. His voice trembled. “He ' s kicking.”

For a rare second, even Ratchet was speechless.

Then he surged forward, placing his scanner carefully against Optimus’s lower plating. The small device flickered with static before displaying rhythmic pulses, each corresponding to a tiny spark’s movement. The kicks intensified, bold and full of energy.

"Strong," Ratchet muttered in disbelief. “Primus, he is strong already.”

“Is that…” Optimus glanced down. “Normal?”

A small smile cracked through Ratchet’s typically gruff façade. “Perfectly. If anything, it’s a sign your sparkling is healthy and highly active.” He tapped a few keys, nodding with professional approval. “If everything continues this smoothly, he’ll come into the world in less than two cycles.”

Optimus ex-vented in quiet wonder, venting warmth from his core.

Soon.

They would meet soon.

The next morning, the base felt like it had been hit by a solar flare—not with panic, but with joy.

Optimus had allowed his team to feel the kicks.

One by one, the Autobots had entered his quarters, each cautious but eager, like hatchlings unsure how to approach a stasis napper.

Bumblebee chirped in awe as he felt the gentle jab against his hand. “Hes so strong!”

Arcee blinked in disbelief, a rare soft smile tugging her mouth. “Of course they are. They’re part of you.”

Wheeljack leaned in, optics wide. “Oi, I think he just punched me! That’s not a kick, that’s a combo!”

Smirks, quiet laughter, hushed voices. The room glowed with more than just internal lighting—it hummed with love.

Prowl, ever the composed tactician, remained near the door at first. But when Optimus gestured for him to approach, he obeyed silently. He placed a gloved hand gently on Prime’s midsection and remained still.

Then came a hard kick, direct and unyielding.

Prowl blinked once.

“…He’ll be a warrior,” he said at last.

Optimus’s expression softened with pride. “Or something better.”

Later that rotation, Prowl gathered the others in a quiet meeting and made a proposal. “We will modify Optimus’s quarters,” he said. “It’s time we prepare for the sparkling.”

“Already ahead of you,” Wheeljack grinned.

“What did you do?” Prowl asked flatly.

“Nothing yet,” Wheeljack winked. “But I will.”

And so it began.

The Autobots, fighters of a centuries-long war, turned to something much gentler. Under Prowl’s careful direction and with the willing hands of many, Optimus’s private space began to transform.

A soft chair was brought in, wide enough to cradle Prime’s frame but designed with a gentle swing function—soothing, comforting. A nursing seat. A place for their leader to sit and hold his sparkling when the time came, rocking slowly through the endless noise of war.

Nearby, a crib was installed.

Crafted from lightweight but reinforced alloy, it gleamed silver-blue, with softened corners and a thick blanket inside—woven by hand by Ratchet himself, who refused to explain where or when he learned to do so. Its lining was warm to the touch, designed to keep a newly sparked protoform cocooned in safety.

A mobile of tiny rotating aerial forms was attached above, each figure mimicking a Seeker in flight—though none dared mention the resemblance.

Optimus stood in the doorway, hands against the frame for support, optics wide with disbelief as he gazed upon the changes.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t have to,” Arcee replied gently. “We wanted to.”

“You’ve protected us for so long,” Bumblebee added, walking up beside him. “Now it’s our turn.”

Ratchet stepped beside him, hand firm on his shoulder. “You’re not alone, Optimus. None of us will let you be.”

Optimus looked over the room once more.

The berth beside the crib. The blankets. The swing chair. The effort.

And slowly, quietly, his frame relaxed.

The burden, for a moment, was lighter.

For the first time in too many cycles, he allowed himself to smile.

The Autobase was alive with a steady rhythm that day.

Bumblebee zipped through the corridors with a crate of energon in tow, Jazz was calibrating the communications console, and Wheeljack was shoulder-deep in a half-dismantled scout drone. Even Prowl, for once, had relaxed his typical patrol schedule to run a full systems diagnostic with Red Alert. Everything felt… almost peaceful.

They had grown used to the new normal. Their leader, once a constant figure on the frontlines, was no longer in battles, but he was still there—his voice on comms, his presence in strategy meetings, his calm certainty guiding them through every step.

Though his steps were slower now, heavier, more careful.

And still, his spark blazed bright.

But no one expected what came next.

It started subtly.

The main hallway doors hissed open, and Optimus appeared—quietly, calmly, with the distant expression of someone focused on a single, urgent purpose. His hands were braced against the wall, palm spread wide, and his ventilations were deep but measured.

Bumblebee was the first to see him. “Optimus?” the scout chirped, waving. “You need something?”

Optimus didn’t answer immediately. His helm dipped low, vents long and labored.

“…Where is Ratchet?” he asked, voice deep, ragged with something unspoken. “I… need him.”

Jazz looked up from the console. “Hey, big guy, you okay?” He stood, optics narrowing as he caught the odd tremor in Prime’s legs.

The moment clicked.

Jazz’s gaze dropped to Optimus’s rounded midsection—and saw it. A twitch beneath the plating. A shudder that wasn’t random.

“Wait.” Jazz stood still for a beat before his voice jumped an octave. “WAIT. Are—are those contractions?!”

The crate in Bumblebee’s servos hit the ground with a clatter.

“WHAT?!”

“Somebot get Ratchet!” Jazz shouted, already sprinting toward Optimus. “NOW!”

“RATCHET TO MEDBAY IMMEDIATELY!” Prowl’s voice bellowed over the intercom before he even finished standing. “THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”

Wheeljack tossed a half-finished datapad aside and bolted. Arcee ran past him in the other direction. Red Alert was already clearing the hallway. Panic turned the base into a blur of movement.

Optimus, for his part, remained oddly calm—too calm.

His hand pressed into the wall again, optics fluttering shut as another wave rolled through him, stronger this time. His vents hitched. His digits clenched.

“I… believe it’s time,” he said quietly.

“Slag,” Jazz hissed, carefully slipping an arm around Prime’s side to support him. “You shoulda called us sooner!”

“I… wasn’t certain,” Optimus admitted. “It began a few cycles ago, a tightness in my lower frame… but I thought it was just pressure. Movement.”

“And now?” Jazz asked, guiding him to sit against the wall as they waited for Ratchet.

“…Now they are not gentle,” Optimus ex-vented sharply, his hand cradling the side of his chassis as if that alone could still the storm beginning within.

Then came the sound they all recognized—the pounding of fast, heavy pedes.

Ratchet arrived like a thunderclap.

“MOVE,” he snapped, clearing a path to Optimus as the rest of the team scattered.

He scanned Prime instantly. His expression sharpened into an unreadable mixture of tension and grim focus.

“They’ve begun,” Ratchet muttered, voice tight. “He’s in early labor. We need to move him now.”

Wheeljack brought a hover-stretcher without waiting to be asked.

“No,” Optimus said softly, rising with Jazz’s help. “I’ll walk. I need to walk.”

Ratchet frowned, but didn’t argue. “Only to the medbay. Jazz, Bee, help him stay upright.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

Each step was heavy, deliberate. Prime’s grip tightened against Jazz’s shoulder with every new contraction that twisted through his core like a vice. But he didn’t cry out. He endured it in silence—his mouth set, optics glowing faintly dim from the strain.

As he walked, Autobots lined the hallway—silent, awed, some frightened, others simply stunned.

This wasn’t a battle.

But it felt just as important.

Because this was Optimus Prime.

Their leader.

Carrying the symbol of hope for them all.

Finally, they reached the medbay. The lights had already been dimmed, tools prepped, Ratchet’s hands ready. Jazz and Bumblebee helped Prime onto the primary berth, easing him down gently.

Ratchet immediately hooked up diagnostics, a holo-display of the sparkling’s pulse flickering to life. A soft, strong beat echoed through the room.

“He is handling the contractions well,” he said with measured relief. “But we’re still in the early phase. This could take time.”

“How long?” Bumblebee asked.

“Several joors at least. Possibly more. It depends on how fast the labor progresses.”

Prowl entered the room then, a rare look of vulnerability on his faceplates. “Is he—”

“He’s in labor,” Jazz confirmed, standing beside Optimus’s berth. “It’s really happening.”

“…Primus,” Prowl murmured, stepping forward to place a careful hand over Optimus’s.

The Prime looked up at them all—his team, his family—and managed a faint, grateful smile.

“Don’t… worry about me,” he said between sharp vents. “Focus on the mission.”

“You are the mission right now,” Ratchet said gruffly. “Let us take care of you, for once.”

Optimus’s optics dimmed slightly, overcome with emotion he didn’t quite voice.

He simply nodded.

Outside the medbay, the Autobots prepared for a long vigil. A quiet energy filled the halls—not fear, not dread, but the breathless anticipation of something beautiful being forged in fire.

The sparkling was on its way.

And no matter how long it took, they would be ready.

Together.

The medbay lights had been dimmed to a soft amber hue. Outside, the base had fallen into a hushed stillness. No one dared speak above a whisper. The Autobots had gathered quietly in shifts just outside the doors, waiting. Hoping.

Within, time seemed suspended.

Optimus lay on the primary berth, propped by a series of cushions carefully designed by Ratchet for his frame. His chest heaved in deep, controlled vents, yet the strain was visible—his armor slick with coolant, optics flickering, hands curled tightly into the berth’s edge.

“Steady,” Ratchet murmured as he monitored the datafeed, moving quickly between screens and Prime himself. “You’re almost through the worst of it.”

A joor had passed. Then another.

Now the contractions came fast, deep and consuming. There was no denying them anymore.

Optimus, who had once held the front line against legions of Decepticons without flinching, now clenched his denta behind parted lips, growling softly through the sharp wave coursing through him.

“Optimus,” Jazz said gently, sitting beside the berth, his hand gripping Prime’s. “You’re doing amazing.”

“Just keep going,” Bumblebee added from the foot of the berth, optics wide and worried but full of admiration.

Prowl stood silently, close by, shoulders squared but fists trembling.

Ratchet moved to the side, his voice serious but calm. “Listen to me. It’s time. The sparkling’s ready to emerge. You’ll need to push now, Optimus. When I tell you.”

Optimus gave a strained nod, his vents quaking.

Ratchet placed both servos over Prime’s lower frame and guided him through it.

“Now.”

Optimus cried out—not in agony, but in power. His chassis trembled, entire frame straining with effort, his vocals breaking through clenched denta. Jazz steadied his arm, Bumblebee braced the berth, and Ratchet remained composed.

“Again.”

The second push was fiercer. Optimus bore down, engine roaring in protest, but the pain was met with resolve. This was his mission now.

“This is it, Prime,” Ratchet said. “One more.”

The moment surged.

Optimus screamed—a sound that shook the walls of the medbay. Not in pain alone, but in defiance, in love, in sheer primal power. And then…

A sound pierced the air.

A scream—not his.

Tiny, shrill, and furious.

A newborn cry, loud and unyielding, like the shatter of lightning across a silent sky.

The sparkling had entered the world.

For a second, no one moved. Not even Ratchet.

In his servos, rested a Seeker.

Small, glistening, still coated in amniotic fluid and new proto-gel. The protoform’s plating shimmered faint silver, but from its shoulder joints extended something impossible:

Wings.

Tiny, elegant, slightly translucent wings, twitching faintly in response to their first exposure to air.

The sparkling’s optics flared open—a vibrant, burning red.

Then came the second scream.

This one louder, brighter. Demanding.

Like a nova being born.

“Primus,” Ratchet whispered, almost reverently. “He’s… an aerial. A Seeker.”

Jazz’s jaw fell slack. “What…?”

Bumblebee took a cautious step forward. “That’s… how is that even possible?”

Prowl’s optics flickered as he scanned the infant, as though he were trying to rationalize a miracle.

But it was Optimus, venting raggedly, who sat upright with a trembling arm and reached out.

Ratchet, stunned but professional, gently placed the newborn into Prime’s waiting arms.

Optimus gathered the sparkling close, letting his trembling servos rest along the tiny back and shoulders—feeling those delicate, twitching wings fold against his own plating. The sparkling nestled into his spark chamber instinctively, his red optics blinking.

“I…” Optimus choked softly. “I can feel him.”

The sparkling cooed. Then screamed again. Incredibly strong for his size, he flailed and kicked with enough force to jostle the blanket Ratchet tried to wrap him in.

“He’s so loud,” Jazz muttered with a stunned laugh. “He’s got a set of pipes on him, that’s for sure.”

Optimus, still exhausted, smiled faintly through dimmed optics. He looked down at the little Seeker, who now stared defiantly at his new world.

“…He cried like a star going nova,” the Prime murmured, pressing his lips gently to the sparkling’s helm. “That’s why… his name will be Starscream.”

The medbay fell utterly silent.

Prowl took a step forward, as if to protest—perhaps the name struck too hard, too sharp. But then he saw it.

That bold, fierce fire already alive in the newborn's optics. That indomitable cry, even in his first seconds of life.

It was a name that fit.

Perfectly.

Ratchet finally relaxed, his hands resting at his sides. “He’s healthy. Strong. Unusually so.”

“He’s… beautiful,” Bumblebee said, kneeling beside Optimus, smiling through misty optics.

Jazz reached out and gently touched the sparkling’s wing. “And he’s got wings. Real ones.”

Optimus let his head fall back against the berth for a moment, cradling Starscream in his arms.

“I didn’t know what would come of all this,” he whispered. “But now… I see. This was what I was fighting for.”

Prowl stepped closer to the berth, placing a hand gently on Optimus’s shoulder. “You’ve given all of us something we didn’t think possible.”

“A future,” Ratchet finished softly.

Starscream, swaddled now in a soft white blanket, nestled against his carrier’s spark. His optics dimmed slowly, soothed by the calm pulses of the bond forming between them.

The Autobots knew the war still raged.

But in this moment, as they gathered around their leader and the miraculous child in his arms, it felt far away.

Hope had been born.

And his name was Starscream.

Chapter Text

Far from Autobot territory, in the cold, metallic heart of the Decepticon warship, the Nemesis, Megatron stood in the war room alone, reviewing updated field reports with a deep frown carved into his features. A minor Autobot outpost had fallen, and energon reroutes were under consideration. The usual flow of war. Tactical. Predictable.

Until—

Something shifted.

It was not external—there was no tremor, no alert, no sound.

It was within.

Megatron stiffened. A sudden pulse beat through his core—not physical, not pain, but a jarring ripple in his spark chamber. His vents hitched for a fraction of a second, hands tightening into fists.

It felt… like resonance. A jolt of old frequencies. A harmonic echo he couldn't identify.

He pressed one hand slowly over his chest, optics narrowing.

“What… was that?”

The sensation was gone as quickly as it came, leaving only a strange warmth, a vague pang of weight in his chest that felt like something missing or… waking.

Before he could dwell further, the doors to the command chamber parted with a hiss.

Dreadwing strode in, his presence formal and heavy as always.

“My Lord Megatron,” he said with a salute.

Megatron didn’t move immediately. His optics lingered on the screen before him as he spoke. “Report.”

“An unusual incident occurred among the Seekers, Commander. Roughly six kliks ago.”

That was moments ago.

Megatron’s attention sharpened. “What kind of incident?”

Dreadwing inclined his helm, visibly unsettled despite his composed tone. “They reported—without coordination—a moment of unease. Some described a tremor in their wings, others, static through their spinal relays. Tension. Flight systems engaging reflexively. It passed quickly, but it was widespread enough to disrupt patrol calibrations. Skywarp and Thundercracker were grounded for nearly five kliks until stabilization.”

Megatron’s gaze darkened, jaw tense.

“Were they attacked? Poisoned?”

“No, my liege. No signs of external cause. Medical scans returned nothing. The techs have no explanation.”

Megatron finally turned to face Dreadwing fully, his optics burning low. “And what do you think it was?”

Dreadwing paused. “It felt… like something instinctual. Shared. Like a ripple through their CNA.”

“A shared biological reaction,” Megatron echoed flatly.

“Yes. Among Seekers only.”

Megatron’s jaw clenched. That odd sensation he felt—now mirrored by the most ancient and instinct-driven fliers in their ranks. He had no evidence to connect it to anything… and yet, his spark insisted it meant something.

He hated that.

He turned away, back to the display. “Keep them under watch. If it happens again, I want full bio-readings. I will not tolerate unpredictable variables among my air division.”

“Understood, Commander,” Dreadwing said, bowing respectfully.

As the Air Commander departed, Megatron stood still again.

That pulse still echoed faintly in his memory, like a whisper on the wind.

The Seekers had always been unique—fragile in some ways, volatile in others, and deeply attuned to each other in a way Megatron had never fully understood, only mastered through dominance and force.

And yet today, even he had felt it. For just a moment.

He curled one servo at his side.

“No anomaly,” he muttered to himself, brushing the moment aside with a scowl.

Still, the feeling haunted him.

Something had changed.

And deep within Cybertronian space, far from the Decepticon flagship, a tiny Seeker with newborn wings rested in his carrier’s arms, red optics closed, a faint pulse from his spark echoing through the air.

The bond had been formed.

The ripple had only just begun.

The first few orns after the birth were unlike anything the Autobot base had experienced in years. The halls were quieter in a strange, reverent way—as if even the metal walls knew something had changed.

Something precious had been born into the chaos of war.

Optimus Prime’s quarters had become a sanctuary. The once strictly functional space was now soft around the edges. A warm glow-light bathed the room, casting golden highlights over the thick blanket nestled in the small berth-side cradle. In that cradle, bundled in soft synth-fiber and humming faintly, was a plump, bright-eyed sparkling with tiny silver wings and downy protofeathers.

Starscream.

His name was too big for him, too dramatic perhaps—but even now, only orns old, his high-pitched screeches filled the room with startling volume. Ratchet swore he’d never met a sparkling with stronger vents.

“Louder than a fragging sonic boom,” the medic grumbled affectionately as he gently scanned the infant’s vitals again.

Starscream had thick, chubby limbs that kicked wildly when he was excited, especially when he heard familiar voices. His wings fluttered without control, little vents on his back trying to stabilize his baby movements.

“He’s built like a flyer,” Ratchet muttered, observing the wing structure again. “But his spark signature… unique. As if it came from two old powers crossing into something new.”

Optimus, still recovering, sat in the gently rocking chair nearby, his optics soft. Exhaustion still clung to him, but every chirp and gurgle from the cradle brought a little more light to his expression.

“He’s so small,” Optimus murmured.

“And round,” added Bumblebee from the doorway, optics huge with wonder. “He looks like he’s storing extra energon in his face.”

The other Autobots chuckled gently. Jazz knelt beside the cradle, letting Starscream grab his finger with surprising strength.

“Hey, little guy. Already got a grip on the battlefield, huh?”

The sparkling gave a sharp chirp and kicked out again, wings flapping.

Prowl watched from near the wall, arms crossed but gaze soft. “He’s alert. Processing well. That head movement is already within acceptable ranges for a first-cycle Seeker.”

“You gonna chart every squawk he makes?” Sideswipe teased, stepping in to take a look.

“Only if you plan to let him fly around unsupervised one orn,” Prowl replied dryly.

“Point taken.”

Every Autobot came, day by day, sometimes just to look at him, to witness something none of them had imagined they’d ever see: their leader, Optimus Prime, cradling life. A future, in the form of a squirmy, slightly chubby, sharp-voiced Seeker.

Cliffjumper, surprisingly, was one of the first to offer his arms to hold the sparkling. “Lemme try, c’mon—can’t be harder than handling live grenades.”

The moment Starscream was placed in his arms, he squealed—then sneezed with such power it made Cliffjumper’s optics widen.

“Okay, yeah, mini warhead confirmed.”

But Starscream calmed in his hold quickly, letting out a happy burbling trill.

“Guess he likes you,” Smokescreen muttered, amazed.

“He likes everyone,” Bumblebee said happily. “Except when he’s hungry. Or sleepy. Or—okay, yeah, he has moods.”

Ratchet snorted. “He’s a Seeker.”

Optimus listened to the chatter as he sat with a soft smile, wings of memory shifting in his spark. He hadn't thought it was possible for so much warmth to be brought back into this base. Not during war. Not now.

Starscream changed everything.

He was loved instantly—not just because he was a miracle, but because he was his own personality already: demanding, loud, clever-eyed. His hands always grabbed for optics, or badges, or anything shiny. He squeaked when someone laughed too loudly and blinked up when someone whispered.

And despite his war-born heritage, there was nothing destructive about him. Not yet.

He was innocence made metal. And no one dared disturb that.

Bumblebee was his biggest fan. Every free moment he got, he came running to help Ratchet or just sit with Optimus. Starscream chirped most when Bee played sounds for him—music, gentle hums, beeping patterns. The sparkling responded with loud kicks, giggles, and his own warbling attempts to mimic.

Ratchet, gruff as ever, became a second carrier in all but name. He tracked every spark pulse, every shift in feeding cycle, every tiny tremor in the wings. He grumbled often—but if anyone else dared call the sparkling annoying, they’d get a wrench to the helm.

Prowl was shockingly invested. Quietly, of course. He redesigned the base’s ventilation near the nursery so Starscream would have better airflow. Created silent alert systems just for the nursery. He never asked for recognition. Just… did it.

Jazz taught Starscream to reach for fingers, balancing him with ease and whispering spy stories that made the sparkling coo.

Wheeljack built him a bouncing hover platform. Starscream bounced until he got dizzy and squealed in delight.

Arcee, hesitant at first, slowly began taking watch duty just outside Optimus’s quarters. Sometimes she came in when it was quiet, touched one small servo gently, and whispered things no one else heard.

They all found their way to him. In time.

Optimus kept logs again.

Not war reports. Not strategy memos.

Logs of Starscream’s cycles. His feeding patterns. His first kick. First squeal. The first time his wings moved without flailing. His tiny vents, always huffing a little too hard. His gaze when it locked onto Optimus’s and stayed there, unwavering.

He was a Prime.

And now he was a carrier.

Sometimes, he wondered—what if this life, this little one, had come under different circumstances? In peace?

But even amid the ache, he knew one thing:

Starscream was hope.

For him.

For them all.

Chapter Text

The war had not stopped. It never did.

Blasts still shook the earth. Skirmishes lit up the skies. Steel clashed against steel, and the bitter push between Autobot and Decepticon territory continued like an unending cycle of sparks and ash.

But beneath all of that, in the heart of the Autobot base, something small—something warm—still thrived.

Starscream.

Now a few cycles older, the sparkling had filled out more. He was a strong tricolor Seeker—a rich blend of silver, deep charcoal, and crimson. His red optics sparkled with awareness, wide and curious. His little wings were more coordinated now, fluttering whenever he got excited. Which was often.

He still didn’t speak. He was young—still so young—but full of sound regardless: chirps, trills, sharp squawks when annoyed or left alone too long. And of course, the iconic screams. His lungs were still infamous base-wide.

“By the Allspark,” Jazz groaned one cycle, pressing a hand to the side of his helm. “How can something so cute sound like he’s trying to rip a hole in the fabric of space-time?”

The source of the sound sat proudly in the center of his padded playpen, gnawing relentlessly on the ear of his beloved toy.

A red-and-white stuffed turbolion.

Its soft mane was now permanently soggy from being drowned in Energon drool. Its ear was chewed into a limp flap, barely hanging on. And Starscream adored it.

He hugged it tightly whenever he napped. He dragged it behind him with all his might when he toddled from one room to another—wobbling on unsteady little pedes, wings flapping with effort. And during the rare tantrums, it was the only thing that calmed him.

“Of all things,” Ratchet grumbled, watching the sparkling bite down hard again on the poor lion’s face. “Could’ve asked for a cube or a microdrone like normal sparklings. No, he picks that.”

“You made it,” Wheeljack pointed out with a grin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ratchet replied, turning away quickly, vent fans huffing. “Appeared on its own.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Don’t you have explosives to miswire?”

Starscream, oblivious to the exchange, gave a delighted gurgle and wobbled forward—dropping the turbolion for a moment only to pick it up and offer it to Bumblebee like a sacred gift.

“Awww, you wanna share?” Bee took it with exaggerated reverence. “You’re such a good—oh Primus, it’s soaked.”

The others laughed while Bee passed it right back.

Though still healing, Optimus had returned to the field. He couldn’t remain still. Not forever. His presence still meant something—still drove his troops forward, still sent the Decepticons into hesitation when they saw that tall red frame across the horizon.

But he fought less now.

He stood back more often, commanding, protecting, calculating. Letting Prowl and Ultra Magnus lead the pushes, allowing Jazz to run sub-ops. He didn’t take unnecessary risks.

Because back at base, something waited for him. Something with small wings and a voice like a high-frequency sonic blast.

The Decepticons had noticed his change.

They did not know why.

At Kaon, in the deep cold of their war rooms, Soundwave once again reported to Megatron in silent motion.

No trace of Prime’s energy signature had ever indicated illness. No trace of an unknown mech. No communication irregularities. No signs of a hostage or new weapon.

And yet… something changed.

“The Autobots have grown unnaturally efficient,” Shockwave noted, claws tapping against his screen. “High morale. Cohesiveness. No pattern of internal disarray.”

“Which makes no sense in prolonged warfare,” Dreadwing added. “Unless… their leader was injured, and they’ve rallied to shield him. But even that does not explain the emotion in their movements. The fire.”

“They are protecting something,” Megatron muttered darkly. “I will uncover what.”

Meanwhile, at the Autobot base, the fire Megatron could not see was now squealing at the top of his vocalizer while throwing his arms in the air.

Starscream was trying to fly.

He hadn’t succeeded, of course. His wings fluttered like hyperactive fans, his legs kicked, and then he toppled over with a squeak and a flump. Optimus moved instantly to catch him, scooping him up and cradling him in his arms.

“You’re determined,” Prime whispered with a soft chuckle.

Starscream blinked up, arms curling around his turbolion, whose soggy ear smacked against Optimus’s chestplate.

“Still a bit heavy in the lower plating,” Ratchet noted from the doorway. “That much energon and no flight discipline? Of course he’s not taking off.”

“You saying my kid’s too chubby to fly?” Optimus raised an optic ridge.

“I’m saying he’s adorably aerodynamic once you shave off a few cube-chubs.”

They both laughed quietly. The war was still out there. It always would be. But this?

This was the moment that mattered.

Starscream, oblivious to all of it, yawned so hard his wings flapped out straight. And then, in an act that silenced the room… he reached up and gently pressed his servo against Optimus’s faceplate.

Just one small touch.

A wordless, innocent gesture.

Optimus froze, then leaned into it.

There were no words yet. No questions. No answers about how a Prime had birthed a Seeker, or what it might mean for the future.

There was only now.

A child with wings.

A father with a weary spark, reignited.

And the turbolion plush—silent witness to it all—losing one more ear to the very jaws of love.

The atmosphere in the Autobot base was calm for once. Not silent—never silent with a Seeker sparkling among them—but peaceful. The lights were low in the rec lounge, the late shift Autobots moving slowly, enjoying a few rare moments of reprieve.

In the center of it all sat Optimus, resting in the wide, cushioned rocker Prowl and the others had made for him. Starscream was curled against his chest, a warm bundle of metal and energy, his wings twitching every so often in his recharge cycle.

The turbolion plush lay beside them like a trusted guardian—its surviving ear soggy as always.

Arcee, Jazz, Ratchet, and Bumblebee were quietly chatting a few meters away. Ratchet was reviewing some datapads, and Bumblebee was telling a ridiculous story about Starscream nearly launching himself into the coolant vents the previous day.

“Looked like a turbocharged feather duster on fire,” Bee said, snickering. “Prime was halfway into the wall trying to catch him before he slipped into the duct.”

Optimus chuckled softly, resting his chin atop Starscream’s helm. His arms cradled the little frame with gentle strength. He could feel the tiny vents against his chest, feel every flutter of the infant spark pulsing just beneath the metal. His own spark beat in time.

Peace. Just for a moment.

Until—

“Mmh…”

The soft sound was easy to miss at first.

“Did he just—?” Arcee tilted her head.

Starscream squirmed slightly in Optimus’s arms, optics half-lidded with drowsiness. His wings gave a sluggish flap.

Then his little mouth opened, and a fragile, static-laced sound emerged. A baby’s warble, a high-pitched squeak—barely formed.

But it was a word.

“...C—Carrier…”

Everyone froze.

Time stopped.

Optimus stared down at the sparkling in stunned silence, his arms tightening instinctively.

“What—” Jazz whispered. “Did—did I hear that right?”

“No way,” Bee breathed. “He—he’s too young to talk yet, right?”

Starscream blinked slowly, as if confused by all the wide eyes and dropped jaws staring at him. He wriggled in Optimus’s hold and repeated, with slightly more force:

“...C—Car—rier...”

Static laced his syllables, but the meaning was crystal clear.

Optimus's spark pulsed so loudly that he felt it in his throat. A hand lifted on its own to gently cup the side of Starscream’s helm, as if grounding himself in the moment.

He hadn’t even taught the word.

Hadn’t spoken it aloud around the sparkling.

And yet—somehow, from instinct, or spark-bond, or something deeper—Starscream knew.

“Starscream…” Optimus whispered, voice rough.

“C—Carrier,” the sparkling repeated, louder now, delighted by the reactions around him. His wings flapped rapidly, his red optics glowing with joy. “C—Carrier!!”

His laugh was sharp and wild and perfect. It echoed through the quiet lounge, ringing like bells over war metal.

Arcee was the first to cover her mouth, optics misting over. Ratchet set his datapad down slowly, stunned beyond all logic. Even he—especially he—couldn’t explain this.

“That… shouldn’t be possible,” he murmured.

“Guess someone didn’t read the part of the manual labeled miracles,” Jazz muttered, voice thick.

Optimus said nothing at first. He simply held Starscream close—resting his cheek against the side of the tiny helm, optics dim with emotion, arms trembling faintly around the very life he’d brought into the world.

Starscream cooed again, then rested his head beneath Prime’s chin.

“Carrier…” he mumbled sleepily, this time more like a sigh than a word.

And like that, he was out.

Recharge reclaimed him.

Optimus gently rocked the chair in rhythm with the tiny ventilations against his chest.

His voice, when it finally returned, was raw.

“He knows,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Ratchet murmured. “He knows.”

Outside, the war moved on. The stars burned. The Decepticons schemed.

But here, in the warm pulse of a single word, the Autobots stood in silent awe.

For they had all seen the impossible.

And heard the first breath of a future none of them could have imagined.

Chapter Text

The war didn’t stop. Not for the change of a leader, not for the birth of a miracle.

Not even for a sparkling.

But it did shift.

In the center of the Autobots’ war room—once a space only for strategy, urgent messages, and briefings—now sat a thick, soft, energon-warmed blanket, carefully tucked into a safe corner beneath a protective shielding node that cast a gentle glow. There, nestled amidst a small pile of toys, sat Starscream.

The sparkling was as round and bright as a nova star.

Chubby, tricolored armor gleamed under the warm lights—vibrant crimson on his wings, soft white along his frame, steely navy underneath. He chewed his lower lip as he focused on the light metal cubes scattered before him, each one glowing with a shifting Cybertronian glyph.

They pulsed in soft hues of green and blue as they responded to his touch—educational cubes Ratchet had most certainly not made, or so he continued to insist.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ratchet had grumbled when asked. “I have no memory of making those cubes. They were… just there. One morning. Someone must’ve left them.”

But no one had.

And no one dared remove them either. Starscream adored the things.

Today, he played silently—tongue poking slightly from his tiny mouthplate, his fingers carefully nudging the cubes around. Bumblebee had passed by earlier and tried to interest him in the turbolion plush again, but the sparkling had swatted it away with a tiny “No!” and gone back to his cubes.

The war room around him remained in motion.

Prowl was issuing commands to a returning scout party. Jazz stood near the comms station, tracking a Decepticon supply trail. Arcee flipped through satellite visuals with her usual sharp concentration. The room was focused, but they all spared the occasional glance toward the little Seeker with his glowing toys—his wings twitching happily every now and again.

No one thought much of it.

Until Ironhide walked by.

He was lugging a heavy weapons crate for the nearby armory wall when he paused beside Starscream—only because the sparkling had started humming to himself, a weird little tune of clicks and chirps that didn’t match anything Cybertronian but was so very Seeker.

Ironhide grunted. “What are you singin’, little winglet?”

Starscream didn’t respond. He just nudged a cube forward. And another. And another.

Ironhide blinked.

The cubes now formed a clean row.

Then Starscream tapped the center one. It rotated and locked into place.

Then the next.

And the next.

By the time the last cube spun and clicked into position, a soft chime rang from them.

A word. A real word. Clear and spelled in glowing glyphs:

Carrier.

Ironhide’s mouth fell open.

Starscream—still humming—tapped the cubes again and rearranged them.

The light shimmered and another word took shape.

Star.

Ironhide dropped the weapons crate.

The loud clang startled everyone in the room.

Prowl whipped around, weapon raised. “Ironhide?! Report—”

But Ironhide didn’t respond. He just stared.

The others followed his gaze.

And silence fell like a wave.

Starscream sat calmly among the cubes, patting one like it was a pet. He gave a gleeful little chirrup and—without looking up—began spelling a third word.

Jazz stepped forward slowly. “No way.”

“Is he…?” Arcee’s voice caught in her throat.

The cubes shifted again.

Prime.

“Primus,” Bumblebee whispered. “He’s writing.”

Starscream finally looked up, proud and wide-eyed, wings flapping like they were trying to launch him into the ceiling. “Cah—reeh! Cahreeeh!”

Optimus had arrived just in time to hear the familiar, beaming shout.

He stood in the doorway—optics wide, hand on the frame, as his spark gave a heavy thump inside his chest. His gaze dropped to the words, then to the tiny Seeker now crawling over the cubes like a conqueror.

“Carrier!!” Starscream shouted again, pointing at him with both arms.

“He—He’s learning,” Ratchet muttered behind him, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “Reading, spelling… Primus, he shouldn’t be forming compound understanding yet. His neural systems aren’t developed enough!”

“You say that a lot,” Jazz muttered, dazed.

“I know!” Ratchet snapped. “And I mean it!”

Starscream, oblivious to the reverence and shock around him, crawled up to Optimus and reached his arms up, chirping insistently.

The mighty Prime knelt and scooped him into his arms. Starscream curled into his chest and sighed happily.

Prowl approached slowly and looked down at the cubes.

His voice, rarely warm, softened. “He knows who he is.”

Optimus looked at him, then to the glowing cube trail on the floor:

Carrier. Star. Prime.

He held his child tighter.

“He always did,” he murmured.

The war room buzzed with steady rhythm—transmissions, Energon reports, Prowl’s clipped orders, and the occasional chirp from the small miracle nestled in the corner of the Autobase.

Starscream had returned to his spot on the plush energon-warmed blanket, surrounded by his favorite light cubes. After proudly spelling words that no sparkling his age should even comprehend, he was plopped back into his “play nest” by none other than Optimus Prime himself, who had to speak with Windblade, recently returned from a reconnaissance mission.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Optimus murmured gently, brushing a servo across his child’s helm.

Starscream huffed in protest.

A full-body buuuhhfaahhh.

That sound had become familiar—a grumbly, air-puffed complaint that meant "I disapprove and you’ll regret this" in the universal sparkling language.

Optimus chuckled and walked across the war room to receive Windblade’s datapad. “Let’s hear it.”

Starscream glared after him, wings drooping dramatically. His little mouthplate wrinkled into the cutest of pouts. The glowing cubes in front of him no longer held his interest. He was watching only his carrier—Optimus, whose broad figure stood in deep discussion at the far end of the room.

The sparkling blinked once.

Then twice.

Then pushed himself up onto his feet.

No one noticed at first.

Because no one was supposed to.

Starscream was still at a stage where crawling and very limited wobbly standing were expected—but even those under close supervision. His internal balance gyros were still calibrating. His leg struts weren’t fully reinforced yet. His tiny wings made his upper weight unstable.

But somehow…

He stood.

Little fingers clenched into fists. His round frame quivered once—unstable, unsure.

He took a step.

A slow, shaky step forward.

One.

The entire room felt the shift. An odd, collective flicker of energy.

Ratchet’s head snapped up from his console.

Jazz, in mid-conversation with Arcee, froze.

Even Windblade blinked mid-sentence and tilted her helm slightly, optics narrowing as though catching the tail end of something surreal.

Two.

The sound of his tiny pedes clicking softly against the metal floor echoed louder than any battle cry.

Starscream took another step.

His arms waved slightly for balance, and he frowned with sheer determination as his body trembled under the strain—but he didn’t fall.

He walked.

Slowly.

Unsteadily.

Toward Optimus Prime.

Three steps.

Four.

“Primus,” Ratchet whispered, now standing fully upright. “He’s walking.”

“No way,” Bumblebee muttered. “No way. That can’t—He can’t!”

Ironhide, seated nearby cleaning a weapon, dropped the rag in his hands and stared wide-eyed. “That shouldn’t be possible. He’s barely two cycles old!”

Optimus turned at the silence, catching the shifting attention—and froze.

“Starscream?” he said, voice low.

The sparkling looked up.

And smiled.

Then took another wobbling step toward his carrier.

Optimus dropped the datapad.

Windblade’s wings flared in stunned reaction.

Starscream stumbled slightly on his sixth step, but caught himself—his tiny winglets twitching to help stabilize his frame. His optics gleamed bright red and locked onto the one person in the room that mattered most.

Optimus knelt, arms open in stunned, gentle awe.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Starscream chirped back—his whole frame wriggling with delight—and ran the last two steps forward, slamming into Optimus's waiting arms with a loud laugh.

Laughing.

He was laughing.

Joyful. Proud. Beaming.

The sound echoed across the war room like a nova bursting into song.

Optimus caught him, clutching his round little frame to his chest, stunned and shaking slightly.

“I…” Prime struggled to find his voice. “He walked. You walked.”

Starscream hugged his Carrier’s faceplate, giving a cheerful little hum before resting his helm under his chin.

The silence broke with Bumblebee stumbling forward. “Did… anyone record that?”

Jazz slowly raised a shaking servo. “I got it on the external surveillance feed… I think.”

Ratchet stood frozen with his mouth open, muttering to himself, “He shouldn’t be able to. His protochassis isn’t fully reinforced. His struts are at only 73% calcification. I built his med scans. I know this…”

Prowl spoke from the side of the room, his voice unusually soft. “He does what he wants. Like all Seekers.”

They all stared.

At the tiny Seeker now sitting proudly in Optimus’s arms, babbling nonsense to his Carrier and rubbing his cheek against his armor.

“I don’t think I understand what he is,” Arcee murmured.

Windblade spoke, voice filled with something like awe. “You don’t need to. He’s the future.”

In the dim light of the Nemesis command bridge, Megatron stood before the main viewport, arms crossed behind his back, gaze cold and distant. The stars shimmered beyond the hull like distant warnings—silent and eternal.

But something wasn’t silent inside him.

It was the third time that cycle.

thum-thum

A strange pulse in his spark.

Faint.

Like a flicker of someone else's presence brushing his own.

Not pain.

Not an alarm.

But a sensation—raw and disorienting. Like a tug, a memory, or something… ancient.

He frowned.

His hand drifted across his chest plating, resting lightly over his spark casing.

That was when the doors hissed open behind him.

“Lord Megatron,” came the even, calculating voice of Shockwave. “I bring an update from Sector Theta-Seven.”

“Proceed,” Megatron said without turning, still unsettled.

Shockwave stepped beside him, servos behind his back. “Autobot mining patterns have shifted. Drones intercepted a long-range energy pulse from the Ark suggesting an increase in processing activity. They are refining more Energon—likely for redistribution.”

Megatron narrowed his optics. “Their usual supply lines are strained. We’ve seen to that.”

“Indeed,” Shockwave replied. “But it is logical to assume they are compensating by harvesting their secondary mine located beneath the Ark’s shadow. Activity in that sector has increased exponentially. I predict that the Ark itself may reposition soon to facilitate direct extraction—perhaps within the next two or three cycles.”

Megatron considered this. Then…

thum-thum

Again.

The same sensation in his spark. Sharper this time.

He winced—barely.

Shockwave’s mono-optic flicked sideways. “Are you injured?”

“No,” Megatron growled. “It’s… irrelevant.”

Another hiss of hydraulics. A silent presence entered the room.

Soundwave.

He stepped close, visor pulsing once in soft light. He paused for a moment, reading the data being passed between his internal channels. Then he turned to Megatron.

::Ravage—available.::

Megatron’s optics flashed.

“Speak.”

Soundwave’s voice came soft, modulated. ::Insertion through Ark underhull possible during extraction. Distraction via mining tremors will grant window. Ravage will obtain interior intelligence.::

Shockwave nodded once. “Infiltration at that precise moment would be optimal. If the Ark is occupied with refining and defensive adjustment, their internal security may lapse—briefly.”

Megatron finally turned away from the viewport, the feeling in his spark still burning, still unknown.

Was it coincidence? The Autobots suddenly refining more Energon. The Ark shifting. His spark flaring for no reason?

He narrowed his optics.

“I want Ravage prepared,” he ordered. “If the Autobots are hiding something inside that ship… we will know.”

Soundwave dipped his helm silently.

Shockwave turned. “And if we find what they’re hiding?”

Megatron’s mouth curled into a slow, deliberate sneer. “Then we take it.”

And still…

That pulse again.

Closer.

Stronger.

Unfamiliar… but not entirely unwelcome.

Megatron didn’t say a word as his claw flexed slightly over his spark again, lost in the silent war within.

Chapter Text

The heavy, humming engines of the Ark thrummed across the sky like a slumbering beast stirred to movement. Its golden hull shimmered in the sun’s reflection as it hovered over the mountainous terrain of Sector Theta-Seven. Below, carved deep into the earth like veins in stone, lay the Autobot's secondary Energon mine—an old source, reactivated out of desperation, now proving more valuable than anyone anticipated.

From high orbit, the Nemesis observed it all.

Megatron stood at the bridge, optics focused on the streaming tactical feeds. Soundwave stood behind him, silently linked with Ravage, who now lurked within the rocky ridges surrounding the Ark, his form cloaked in advanced refractors.

“The Ark has entered extraction position,” Shockwave stated calmly. “Exactly as predicted.”

Megatron didn’t speak. His optics narrowed as his spark gave another pulsing flutter—a beat of something rising and twisting deep inside. Still that odd, unwanted sensation… but he pushed it aside.

Then—

A loud commotion crackled through intercepted Autobot transmissions.

::Windblade—reporting from shaft seventeen! We’ve found something—bright red and pink crystal clusters!::

::What?! That’s impossible!::

::Ratchet, confirm—!::

::They’re real, Prime.:: Ratchet’s voice came through, strained with disbelief and awe. ::Fully formed red and pink Energon crystals. They’re rich in trace stabilizers and mineral density. This is the purest Energon I’ve seen in cycles. Possibly since pre-war.::

Megatron’s optics flared. Red and pink? A rare purity—legendary, almost. Unstable in some hands. In others, salvation.

“Interesting…” he muttered.

Back on the surface, Windblade emerged from the jagged mine mouth, her expression lit with joy and astonishment.

“We’ve struck a motherload!” she shouted to the others, holding up one radiant, gleaming shard that pulsed with a warm pinkish hue.

The Autobots surrounded her quickly, Prowl and Jazz moving with haste into the mine, Ironhide barking commands to secure the perimeter while others hurried to set up stabilizers. Even Optimus was seen moving carefully down the incline, flanked by Ratchet and Ultra Magnus.

The air was filled with disbelief, joy, and focused urgency.

All optics turned inward. All sensors focused on treasure.

That was when Ravage moved.

He slinked down the shadowed edge of the ridge, his form almost entirely invisible. The Ark’s lower hatch had opened for ventilation as drones buzzed in and out to carry supplies. Ravage leapt, claws silent, body like smoke.

He entered the Ark unseen.

Inside, the ship pulsed with faint warmth and the energy signature of old tech and newer construction. Ravage’s visor flicked rapidly, marking access points, scanning for central cores, and mapping paths through the Autobot inner sanctum. His tail twitched once, recording everything.

Meanwhile, on the Nemesis, Soundwave’s visor pulsed—data streaming in.

::Ravage—inside.::

Shockwave looked at Megatron. “The window is narrow. The Autobots will not remain distracted for long.”

“They are fools when they celebrate,” Megatron said, though his spark throbbed again, harder this time, enough to make him briefly shut his optics and steady himself.

He didn’t understand it. Why now?

Why this feeling?

Why did something in his chest ache when the Ark came into view?

Megatron’s claws tightened around the railing.

“Let them celebrate,” he said darkly. “But when they return to their Ark, they will find it… less theirs than they believed.”

Soundwave gave no response—but his visor flared brighter. Ravage was in position.

Inside the Ark… he moved deeper.

And somewhere in the lower levels, a small presence stirred within the nursery chamber.

A faint scent of charged Energon in the air.

A soft hum.

And the sound of cubes clattering softly to the floor.

The Ark was unusually quiet.

Down in the lower chambers, where the hum of engines softened into a low lullaby and lights were dimmed to calm a young frame, the nursery was bathed in soft pink and golden light, gently flickering from the crystal nightlamp embedded into the wall.

Starscream sat quietly in the corner of his padded blanket enclosure, his cube toys scattered around him. His wings—delicate and pale silver with streaks of red and blue—twitched once. Then again.

A ripple.

A spark pulse.

It wasn’t one he knew. It wasn’t familiar like Carrier, or warm and gruff like Ratchet, or calm and poised like Prowl. This one was different—sharp, stealthy, like something gliding across metal too quietly.

The tricolor Seeker blinked his bright red optics, his little vents giving a soft puff. He felt it again. A sensation down the ridges of his back. His wings slowly stretched, straight and high, rising instinctively like antennas.

He was too young to understand it.

But something was near.

Without making a sound, Starscream stood. He wobbled once, his still-forming peds unsteady. But he was determined. Slowly—deliberately—he moved toward the edge of the nursery gate. A soft chime activated, but his tiny servo reached up and lightly pressed the override glyph that Ratchet had shown him to play peek-a-bot with his Carrier.

The gate hissed.

And opened.

Elsewhere in the ship, Ravage slithered through the auxiliary corridor near the power relay junction. He had mapped a route to the communications server. The ship was old, modified, but he had found points of entry.

Yet something—something strange—itched at the back of his processor.

He froze.

His optical visor scanned behind him.

Nothing.

Silence.

Until—

TUG.

Ravage’s tail jerked backward.

He twisted swiftly, a low growl rising from his throat. Fangs gleamed.

But it wasn’t an Autobot.

It was… tiny.

Wide red optics stared up at him, filled with unfiltered wonder. The tricolor sparkling had both servos latched to the middle of Ravage’s tail, and before the infiltrator could react—

"Chrrrp!" Starscream squeaked, and put the tip of Ravage’s tail in his mouth.

A wet, cheerful slurp.

Ravage went stiff.

His tail twitched violently, but the little one didn’t flinch. He looked delighted. His wings fluttered behind him like excited flags. He sucked and gurgled like it was his favorite teething toy.

::…Soundwave.:: Ravage's message pinged across the bond, flat, utterly baffled. ::Complication.::

::Clarify.::

::There is a… a youngling. It has located me. It is feeding on my tail.::

Back on the Nemesis, Soundwave blinked. Even Shockwave paused at the relay.

Megatron turned his helm slowly. “What…?”

Inside the Ark, Ravage stared down at the sparkling, whose helm now rested gently against his flank, small frame relaxing as though the Decepticon infiltrator were the warmest, safest thing in the world.

The little one made a noise again. “Grr-brrfff.”

Ravage sighed through a vent.

What was he supposed to do with this?

He attempted to shift away, only for Starscream to follow, gripping tighter with a chirp of protest. The Seeker’s little claws scratched lightly against Ravage’s leg, and he flopped to the floor, wings up like a tired turbofox cub.

::Soundwave.:: Ravage again. ::It’s… purring.::

::Transmission: Proceed with mission. Do not engage. Avoid detection.::

::Difficult. It is attached.::

Then, soft footsteps echoed down the corridor.

A voice.

“Starscream?”

Ravage’s head snapped toward the sound.

Optimus Prime.

He rounded the corner, expression shifting in real-time from calm to shock, to fear, to instant defensive protection.

“Don’t—!”

Ravage leapt.

But not to attack.

To flee.

He disengaged the tail—still wet from teething—and sprang up into the upper vents in a blur of movement. Optimus was fast, catching only a streak of darkness and silver.

Starscream gave a loud squawk of protest from the floor.

“Taily!”

Optimus scooped the sparkling up into his arms just as Prowl and Ironhide arrived, weapons drawn.

“What was it?!” Ironhide snapped.

“A spy,” Prowl muttered, optics scanning. “He got away.”

“He didn’t come for war.” Optimus looked down at his sparkling, who was holding out his arms like he wanted to chase after Ravage.

“No alarm triggered,” Prowl said. “Nothing was taken. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Not yet,” Optimus murmured, tightening his hold.

Behind his chestplate, his spark pounded hard.

Because that infiltrator… that thing… had made it all the way to his child.

And somehow, Starscream wasn’t afraid.

Alarms blared through the Ark like a rolling wave of red light and sharp klaxon bursts.

Jazz’s voice echoed from every comm unit on the ship.

“Code Red. Lockdown protocol. No exits permitted. Repeat: we have a Decepticon intruder. Lock everything down, now!”

Steel doors hissed shut. Access hatches sealed. Magnetic field barriers activated in engineering, medbay, and hangar storage. Windows darkened. The Ark transformed from a transport ship into a fortress.

“Ventilation secured,” Red Alert barked, hands flying over the control panel. “Airlocks sealed. No movement detected up top.”

“But he’s still here,” growled Ironhide, slamming a fresh energon clip into his cannon. “I’ll stake my spark on it.”

Meanwhile, Optimus Prime was no longer just the commander.

He was a Carrier.

He was no longer thinking about the mission, the map, or the cause.

He was thinking about Starscream, who nestled in his arms with wide, confused red optics. The little Seeker's wings were still quivering from the strange encounter, as though his frame remembered something his mind couldn’t name.

“Search every hallway. Every maintenance panel. I don’t care if you have to rip up the floor—find that Decepticon,” Optimus ordered, voice low and calm—but it carried an iron edge that froze everyone in place.

Ravage crouched above a row of energon crates in the upper levels of the ship. He was pressed into the shadowed corner of the storage vent corridor, limbs tucked, visor dimmed.

His tail swayed silently behind him.

Below, he watched the Autobots spread out. Prowl’s tactical team checked the walls. Bumblebee and Wheeljack were checking conduits. Even Windblade had rejoined the hunt, her vents sharp with fury.

But none of them were looking up.

They assumed the enemy would run on the floor.

::Soundwave.:: Ravage’s ping was calm, but clipped. ::Trapped. They locked the exits. Extensive sweep in progress. Cannot engage.::

The reply came instantly.

::Extraction plan: proceed to northwest hull. Create exit. Priority—eliminate obstacles.::

::Understood. Initiating escape. Streaming visual now.::

In the Nemesis’s war room, the main screen lit up.

From Soundwave’s console, Ravage’s live transmission beamed in:

A shaky visual of Autobots moving room by room.

A tight view of Starscream clinging to Prime’s shoulder, chubby wings flicking.

A flash of red from the alarms casting harsh light over the crew.

Megatron stood slowly, optics locked on the screen. “That is… a sparkling,” he said.

Shockwave tilted his helm. “Unusual frame configuration. Aerial. Size suggests newly formed protoform. Age: negligible. Yet movement patterns display... advanced motor development.”

Megatron’s fists clenched. “Why would the Autobots harbor a sparkling during war?”

Soundwave turned silently. His visor flickered as he played back the image of Starscream’s face.

So small. So red-opticked. So eerily familiar.

Back in the Ark, Ravage began moving—fast and lethal.

He dropped down silently behind the engineering station, ducking under power conduits, avoiding motion sensors by milliseconds. He was invisible in the chaos.

Until—

“THERE! MOVEMENT ON DECK 3!”

Ravage fired.

His twin plasma bolts struck the wall near Red Alert’s team, forcing them into cover.

“DECEPTICON CONFIRMED! HE’S RUNNING!”

The chase began.

Ravage leapt into a pipe tunnel, used his tail to rip open a loose grate, and crawled like a shadow. He pushed forward, every moment of footage still being streamed live to the Nemesis.

Through his optics, Megatron now saw the Ark’s inner structure, the angles of its vulnerabilities, and—most importantly—the Autobot protocols during a security breach.

But as Ravage turned the last corner toward an outer wall—

He stopped.

A tiny cube sat on the floor.

It was one of the light cubes from the nursery.

Glowing, marked with a Cybertronian letter.

Just one.

“S.”

Ravage stared at it.

And from behind the wall nearby, he heard a tiny chirp. Almost like a whisper. As if the Seeker had followed again.

Not physically this time.

But…

::Soundwave,:: Ravage sent again, slowly. ::…That sparkling knew I was here. Before any of them. He followed my spark signature.::

The feed went dead.

Ravage had launched himself through a service duct—and activated the cutting laser to slice through the Ark’s outer hull.

Inside, Windblade screamed, “He’s breaching the wall!”

Starscream, resting in Optimus’s arms, perked up. His red optics widened as he raised his little servos and babbled:

“Taily!”

The moment Ravage breached the outer hull, a deafening alarm tore through the Ark like a scream of fury.

“HULL BREACH, SECTOR 5. DECEPTICON SIGNAL LOST.”

“FRAG!” Ironhide roared, slamming his fist against the nearest wall.

Jazz was already moving. “He cut a hole and launched. Too fast—too good. He’s gone!”

In the war room, Prowl’s processor was already ten steps ahead.

He turned sharply to face the main deck.

“We’re compromised. He saw too much—internal systems, schematics, layout, and worst of all…” his optics darted toward Starscream, still nestled in Optimus’s arms, “…he saw the sparkling.”

Optimus’s optics darkened. “We cannot risk another infiltration.”

“Then we need to leave. Now.”

Outside, the Energon mine was alive with frantic activity.

Windblade hovered in the air, directing the team like a hawk commanding a battlefield.

“Don’t waste time separating types—red, pink, blue, violet—everything gets loaded! We don’t know when or if we’ll be able to return!”

The red and pink crystals glimmered under the floodlights, rich veins of pure, high-grade energon that danced with mineral density most Autobots only dreamed of.

“Careful with those!” Windblade shouted at Cliffjumper, who nearly dropped a whole container of red crystal shards. “That’s enough volatile matter to explode a medbay!”

“Noted!” he shouted back, adjusting his grip with both arms. “Not my idea of going out with a bang!”

Back on the Ark, Ratchet and Wheeljack were working like mechs possessed.

“Engaging radar cloak protocol,” Ratchet snapped. “I need thirty astro-seconds before it kicks in. Hold your vents, people!”

Wheeljack barked out orders, flipping stabilizer locks and reactivating the core engines. “Re-calibrating power conduits to stabilize the hull breach. Gonna reroute flow through the secondary grid—ain’t gonna be pretty, but it’ll fly.”

Jazz gritted his denta. “We won’t be able to stay hidden for long if Ravage shared our location with Megatron.”

“We won’t need long,” Prowl said grimly. “We’re not staying.”

The crystals poured in.

Autobots ran in tight, loaded relays from the mine’s throat to the cargo bay.

Gleaming chunks of pink energon like fractured hearts. Blood-red spears of rare compressed energy. Windblade personally carried two crates the size of minibots, despite the weight.

She was the last one in before the ramp sealed.

“Final load secured,” Prowl confirmed. “Everyone’s accounted for.”

Wheeljack’s servo slammed the throttle.

The Ark’s engines roared to life, lifting the mighty vessel off the ground, thrusters cracking stone and melting dirt as the ship rose into the night.

“Protocol Phantom engaged,” Ratchet announced, slamming a red-lit button.

With a sharp shimmer, the Ark vanished from visible light and radar signature—a ghost in the sky.

Inside the bridge, everyone was shaken.

But no one more than Optimus.

He sat silently now, Starscream back in his lap. The little tricolor Seeker had calmed down again, quietly chewing on the plush turbo-lion toy. His wings fluttered softly as his spark hummed.

He was unaware of what had almost happened to him.

Of how close it had come to being discovered—again.

And yet…

From somewhere deep in his coding, something had warned him.

He’d followed it. Reacted.

A sparkpulse. A memory. An instinct?

Optimus cradled his sparkling tighter. “We’ll keep you safe, little one.”

But outside, in the black vastness of space, the game had changed.

Because now, the Decepticons knew:

The Autobots were hiding something.

Ravage had seen it.

And Megatron had seen him.

The Decepticon war room was dim, cast in hues of red and steel. The air was thick with static, the aftershock of Ravage’s transmission still fresh. The monitor screens flickered with the last grainy images the Cassettecon had sent before escape: flashes of metallic corridors, voices, movement—and one small shape nearly drowned in light.

A sparkling.

Megatron stood before the primary tactical console, servo braced heavily on the edge of the desk, staring into the darkness of the screen long after the footage had ended.

“Rewind. Stop. Frame—now.”

The still image flickered.

There it was again.

That shape. Small, tricolor, and alive.

Wings.

A tiny pair of wings.

Seeker wings.

His optics narrowed, lips curling in the slightest twitch of disbelief and… something else. Something visceral. Something buried and primal, thudding beneath his sparkchamber like a warning drum.

The doors hissed open as Shockwave and Soundwave entered.

“Report,” Megatron barked.

Shockwave, ever composed, stepped forward with the calculated cadence of logic.

“Analysis of Ravage’s visual data suggests the presence of a Seeker sparkling aboard the Ark.”

Megatron’s optics flared. “A Seeker. On the Ark.”

“Indeed. He was small—possibly newly-formed. Given size, mass, and reactionary movement, I project a cycle range no greater than twenty. No identifying marks or colors beyond standard tricolor schema.”

Soundwave remained silent, but the static of his visor gave the slightest pulse.

Megatron turned toward him slowly.

“Soundwave. You saw the footage. You are familiar with every Seeker currently in operation. Every frame, every variant. Did that one match anyone?”

Soundwave tilted his head, visor glowing steadily.

A beat of silence.

Another.

Then, with flat evenness:

“No match. Unique configuration. Optic color: red. Wing pitch: narrow, high-set.”

Shockwave added, “Curious detail: the sparkling’s optic glow bore similarity to your own, Lord Megatron.”

Megatron didn’t speak.

He froze.

Then: “Coincidence.”

Shockwave did not challenge him. “Statistically plausible. However… unlikely.”

Another beat of silence. Megatron’s spark pulsed harder now—once. Twice. A deep throb that had begun the moment Ravage had reported being trapped. That moment… of panic? Of pull?

He growled softly, low and internal. “A Seeker sparkling… born into Autobot hands?”

Shockwave adjusted his stance. “I believe, logically, the Autobots may have recovered a dormant protoform—one lost during the fall of Vos or Kaon. Possibly found in the wilds and reactivated with their remaining AllSpark fragments.”

Megatron turned, sharp. “And kept secret for this long?”

Soundwave’s visor flickered with another wave of unreadable pulses.

He had not said it aloud, but he had seen something in that footage. Not just the Seekerling.

He remembered the carrier’s voice.

Gentle. Careful. Warm.

“Come back here, little one.”

The tone wasn’t medical.

It wasn’t command.

It was parental.

But Soundwave said nothing.

Not yet.

Not until he had proof.

Because the possibility was impossible. There were no functioning birthing frames on the Ark. No reports. And the Seeker sparkling was too young. He would have been created after the Ark launched.

"No Carrier among the Autobots would risk reproduction during active war deployment,” Shockwave added, almost like reading Soundwave’s processor.

“But,” he added carefully, “should this be true, it would be a strategic anomaly. Possibly… an experimental birth. One involving a Seeker protoform. Rare. Dangerous.”

Megatron’s optics gleamed brighter now. “And foolish.”

He leaned back slowly, his glossa wetting his fangs.

“Then find the origin. Search all known Seeker lineages. Cross-check energy signatures, wing patterns, Sparkprints. I want to know where that creature came from.”

He turned his gaze to Soundwave at last, piercing.

“And if the Autobots are hiding something as fragile as a sparkling… we will take it. We will make them bleed for it.”

Soundwave inclined his helm.

“Understood.”

But deep inside, a tiny tremor shook loose behind Soundwave’s emotionless mask.

Because for one brief moment…

…when the sparkling looked up at the camera…

…the angle, the tilt of the chin, the shade of those optics—there had been something achingly familiar.

And Soundwave could not—would not—say it yet.

Ark — Medical Bay
Optimus stood near the viewing panel in Ratchet’s lab, his arms folded across his chassis, posture rigid. Outside the reinforced glass, Starscream sat on a soft cushion inside his nursery enclosure—chubby, humming, and poking at the holographic display of little flying turbofoxes above his head. He chirped, wings twitching, optics aglow with innocent joy.

But Optimus Prime looked anything but at peace.

“Ratchet,” he said at last, voice low, “what if they know?”

Ratchet didn’t look up from his datapad. “They don’t know.”

“Ravage saw him.”

That made Ratchet pause. He set the pad down and turned to face his Prime.

“Saw, yes,” he admitted, “but did he understand what he saw? There’s a difference.”

Optimus’s optics dimmed. “You underestimate them. Megatron is paranoid, and Soundwave... observant beyond measure.”

Ratchet frowned, walking over. “Then we accelerate everything. We upgrade the lockdown systems. Move the nursery. Relocate every room if necessary. I’ll even reroute power signatures so it doesn’t read like a sparkling’s nursery. But—” he hesitated, then placed a servo gently on Optimus’s arm, “—you don’t pull away from him.”

Optimus blinked down at him. “You think I would?”

“I’ve seen you.” Ratchet’s voice softened. “You’re scared.”

Optimus didn’t answer. He just looked at the glass again.

On the other side, Starscream squealed with laughter as one of the holographic birds spun too fast and fizzled, reaching out stubby arms for a new one. His chubby wings flared straight behind him in delight, still awkward with growing joints.

Optimus's spark pulsed painfully.

“I don’t regret it,” he said quietly. “Not even now.”

“Then we’ll protect him,” Ratchet said. “But if the Decepticons truly know... you have to be prepared for what comes next.”

Optimus nodded once. The look in his optics was steel.

“If they come for him, they won’t leave alive.”

“Ravage saw something,” Ratchet admitted, crossing his arms. “And Soundwave’s no fool. If anyone’s going to uncover the truth, it’s him.”

Ratchet ex-vented, walking closer to the Prime.

“Then we prepare. Accelerate the cloaking protocols.But you, Optimus—you don’t pull away. You hear me?”

Optimus turned to him slowly.

“I would never,” he said. “He is mine.”

Ratchet nodded. “Yours, and…” he hesitated.

“His,” Optimus finished bitterly.

Neither said Megatron’s name aloud.

Ratchet shook his head. “This was never supposed to happen.”

Optimus turned back to the glass. The little seekerling tried to catch a glowing bird in his projection, missing and tumbling into a heap of cubes. He giggled and clapped.

“It happened,” Optimus whispered. “And I don’t regret it.”

“You shouldn't,” Ratchet replied firmly. “But you’ll have to protect him now—twice over. Because once Megatron knows…”

“I’ll protect him from everyone,” Optimus vowed. “Even Megatron.”

Nemesis — Strategium Room
Thunderclouds weren’t just brewing over Earth—they were boiling within the Nemesis.

The Aerialbots and Seekers stood in the upper hangar, murmuring, wings twitching and angled with tension. The footage from Ravage had spread like energon fire.

“A sparkling Seeker?” Thundercracker asked, incredulous.

“Looks Vosian,” Skywarp muttered. “But how? We don’t have any nesters left.”

“It must be some kind of experimental protoform,” Bitstream offered.

“Or the Autobots built it,” Nova Storm growled. “That’s worse.”

Shockwave entered the room with cold calmness. “The sparkling shows genetic markers and structure common to Seekers, yes. But there are... anomalies.”

The Aerialbots turned to him.

“Elaborate,” Skywarp said sharply.

“The child’s Seeker coding is imperfect. Modified,” Shockwave continued. “There is no current genetic signature that matches him fully in our archives.”

There was a stunned pause.

“Modified?” Thundercracker echoed. “You mean... he’s not one of ours?”

“I believe the sparkling may be a hybrid,” Shockwave answered.

And that was when all optics turned slowly toward the silent figure in the back of the room.

Soundwave.

Still. Watching.

He had seen the recording.

He had heard the voice that soothed the sparkling.

The one that called him “Little one”—in a way only he had heard before.

Optimus Prime.

And the child’s optics… red. But not Decepticon red. Bright crimson with that familiar burn. His plating—red, white, and blue—was no Seeker standard issue. It was personal.

And the wings, stubby and soft though they were, weren’t entirely Vosian.

No… there was something different in the seekerling’s energy field.

Something Soundwave had once felt only around two mechs in his life:

Megatron.
And Optimus Prime.

He said nothing, only recorded.

If his theory was right…

If the sparkling wasn’t just a seekerling, not just a war orphan...

But a direct carrier-sire product of Megatron and Optimus Prime...

Then the Autobots weren’t hiding a rescued child.

They were hiding the sparkborn heir of both factions.

And that knowledge could shatter the war forever.

But until he had proof, he remained silent.

Because when he did speak…

He would speak to Megatron first.

Nemesis — Megatron’s Private Chambers
The glow of red light bounced off cold obsidian metal as Megatron sat in silence, helm tilted slightly, staring at the slowly spinning holo-image of the seekerling Ravage had captured on vid-feed.

It was just a child.

But it shouldn't matter.

And yet…

Something in his spark twitched every time he saw the footage.

Not pain. Not anger. Something else. Something he could not—refused to—identify.

The little thing had lifted its chubby hand to the lens.

The moment Ravage had zoomed in, the seekerling had smiled.

Not in recognition—but somehow… the expression had felt familiar. Like an echo.

He pressed a hand to his chassis briefly, as if to silence the thrum beneath.

“It is impossible,” he told himself.
“Optimus would never…”

Would never what?

Megatron rose abruptly and exited his quarters.

Nemesis — Strategium War Room
The room stood in quiet murmur when Megatron entered. The screen still showed the seekerling's recorded image in loop. Around it were data scans, overlays, speculation.

The Aerialbots and Seekers turned, tense.

“Commander,” Skywarp greeted, bowing slightly. “The troops are ready.”

Thundercracker stepped forward. “If the Autobots truly have a Seekerling… we should take him. It’s our kind. He belongs with us.”

“Enough speculation,” Megatron said coolly. “We are taking him.”

No one breathed.

“The Ark cannot keep such a thing from the Decepticons. Not if it is what we suspect. Not if it has… value.”

“Even if it’s young?” Nova Storm questioned.

Megatron's gaze flicked to him. “Especially because it is young. A Seeker raised among Autobots is a weapon forged against us. If it is theirs, we reprogram it. If it is ours, we reclaim it.”

He turned toward Soundwave, who had remained in the shadow.

“You’ve said little, Soundwave.”

Soundwave’s visor glowed softly. “Data incomplete. Observation ongoing.”

“Yet I see doubt in your frame.”

Soundwave said nothing. Not a twitch.

Megatron didn’t press him further.

Instead, he turned to the waiting Seekers and Aerialbots.

“You will prepare a silent strike. I want the child captured, not damaged. You do not fire unless I give the order. We retrieve it intact.”

The Seekers nodded with silent anticipation. A mission of retrieval. It would be delicate—and personal.

Then, from the shadows near the rear panel, Ravage slinked forward and stretched, shaking off some scorched insulation from his frame.

“Tracking device… still active,” he purred with satisfaction.
“Hidden in a ventilation cable. Encrypted pulse signal. Not traceable.”

The room stiffened.

Soundwave tilted his helm slightly, nodding. “Transmission confirmed. Ark: active in southern hemisphere. Sector 9-Echo.”

Megatron's optics flashed.

“We now know exactly where they are.”

Nemesis — Soundwave’s Private Network
Later, when the room had emptied and Megatron left to prepare the next steps, Soundwave stood alone with Ravage curled beside his peds, the screen blinking with subroutines and decrypted pulses.

He was not convinced this was a normal Seekerling.

The chassis structure, plating configuration, energy resonance. Everything added up to something that should not exist.

No record of Seekers gestating in Autobot custody.

No public record of captured protoforms.

And most importantly:

The child’s field signature was a near perfect merge of two energy echoes Soundwave knew by code and pulse as intimately as his own—

Megatron.
And… Optimus Prime.

He didn’t speak it aloud.

But his next encrypted log read:

[Observation: Codebase Merge Detected]
[Potential Genetic Sources: MEGATRON // OPTIMUS PRIME]
[Probability: 92.4%]
[Status: Unknown Spark-Origin]
[Subject: Classed as HIGH VALUE]

Ravage’s optic blinked once.

“You will tell Megatron?” he asked through their internal link.

Soundwave hesitated.

“…Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Soundwave answered finally, “proof… must be absolute.”

He stared at the flickering image of the seekerling, wings twitching playfully, optics glowing bright red as he gnawed again on a cube corner and tumbled over.

A child born of war.

A child born of them.

And if Megatron found out without understanding—

There would be no mercy.

Chapter Text

Nemesis — Tactical Command Deck
The war room was silent.

Only Shockwave’s voice echoed, calm and calculated.

“Distraction. Extraction. Detonation. Three phases. Minimal loss. Maximum psychological impact.”

He activated the hologram of the Ark’s new, cloaked location. The signal Ravage left behind flickered in pulses, allowing them to trace its hidden movements in real time.

“Skywarp,” Shockwave said, turning his one optic to the grinning purple Seeker, “you are the key. Teleportation coordinates are locked based on Ravage’s signal. Your insertion will occur during the second phase.”

Skywarp cracked his knuckles, wings flaring with excitement. “You want me to appear inside the Ark? And yoink the kid out?”

“Precisely,” Shockwave replied. “The Autobots will be too preoccupied to detect a spike in localized quantum distortion if masked by external explosions and electrical interference.”

“Translation,” muttered Thundercracker from behind, “blow stuff up while Skywarp vanishes with the sparkling.”

“Affirmative,” Shockwave said dryly.

Megatron stepped forward, his tone low and commanding.

“You are to create chaos. Make it look like we want to level the Ark. Let them believe we know nothing of the Seekerling. That will keep the Prime distracted.”

He turned to the screen. The seekerling’s image glowed there, still innocent, still unaware.

“And while they fight to save their ship… Skywarp will appear in the nursery, retrieve the target, and return.”

“No casualties?” Skywarp asked, almost disappointed.

“Only what’s necessary to cover the mission,” Shockwave replied. “We will destroy systems, not lives. For now.”

Skywarp winked at Thundercracker. “Guess I better practice holding a sparkling. Never done a baby snatch before.”

Thundercracker slapped the back of his helm. “Don’t call it that.”

Ravage, coiled by Soundwave’s peds, purred quietly.

“Ventilation paths unchanged. Nursery route confirmed.”

Soundwave tapped a button. A 3D model of the Ark rotated. In it, the ventilation cable Ravage had crawled through glowed faint blue. A perfect path for Skywarp’s teleport to avoid detection.

Shockwave concluded:

“Phase One: Diversion team strikes energy output nodes on the Ark’s outer hull. Simultaneous power surges will keep their scanners offline.”

“Phase Two: Skywarp enters through Ravage’s signal vector. Extraction of target.”

“Phase Three: Minor detonation of auxiliary systems. Incite emergency protocol, delay pursuit.”

Megatron looked across his chosen team. Seekers, silent and ready. Skywarp practically vibrating in anticipation. Soundwave still unnervingly quiet.

“Bring the sparkling to me,” Megatron said, his voice laced with an emotion none dared name.
“I want him… safe.”

Nemesis — Later That Night
Alone in his quarters, Megatron stared at the ceiling.

He told himself it was about power. Influence. Control.

But deep inside—deep, where even he did not allow words to go—he felt the call again.

A spark, unfamiliar and yet… bound to his own.
A pulse that should not exist.
A bond he had not made… but could not deny.

The memory of glowing red optics, too bright for a sparkling. A white chestplate striped in blue and black. Small wings fluttering.

Too small. Too fragile. Too familiar.

If Shockwave was right… and if Soundwave suspected what Megatron did not dare say…

Then this was no ordinary retrieval.

This was war over something that could destroy them all—or unite them in ways none were prepared to face.

Autobot Ark — Orbiting Sector 7-Δ
It began with a scream of metal.

The Ark trembled as the first detonation struck its dorsal stabilizers. Lights flickered across the bridge, klaxons flared red, and Ratchet barely managed to catch himself on a railing as the floor listed.

“Direct hit on energy outputs!” Jazz shouted, “We’re being herded into orbit decay!”

“Decepticons?” Arcee snapped.

“Who else would show up just to blow out our engines!” Bulkhead growled.

And amidst the chaos… Starscream, the tiny Seekerling, sat on a metal blanket in the nursery chamber. His wings flattened tightly, sensing something wrong. Something wrong in the air. The sound of the Ark’s internal systems crackling. The screams. The shift.

His Carrier was not near.

He puffed up, small hands gripping his toy cube tightly. His bright red optics stared at the door.

Then—a hum. The air around him twisted.

fwoop!

Skywarp emerged mid-air with a flash of violet energy and a toothy grin.

“Well, hello there, you pretty little problem.”

The Seekerling didn’t scream. He hissed.

And then—he did something no one expected: He launched the cube at Skywarp’s face.

CLUNK!

Skywarp staggered back, swearing. “Alright then! You got bite.”

He grabbed the little Seekerling by the midsection, wings fluttering against his armor.

Elsewhere—

Bridge, 8 seconds earlier
“WHERE IS HE?!”

Optimus Prime’s roar made every Autobot freeze.

Windblade blinked. “The nursery!”

And then—Optimus was gone.

He tore through the corridors like a storm. His frame flared with energy, servos screaming. The presence of a Carrier denied what was his ignited something terrible in the Matrix-bearer.

He was no longer Prime.

He was a spark-stricken Carrier, and someone had just stolen his sparkling.

“STARSCREAM!!!”
“NO!!!”

He rounded the corner just in time to see the violet shimmer of teleportation consume Skywarp and the small, squirming figure in his arms.

“NO!!”

Skywarp met his optics for a fraction of a moment. That grin—cocky and cold.

And then he vanished.

fwoop!

Optimus collapsed to his knees where the teleportation residue lingered, his frame shaking, vents heaving.

“...Starscream.”

Behind him, Ratchet skidded into the room, optics wide. “No—No, no, tell me I’m wrong—”

Optimus stood up slowly. Silent.

Then he turned to the comms, optics blazing.

“All Autobots: Prepare for counter-invasion. We retrieve him or we burn through every last Decepticon until we do.”

Nemesis — 30 kliks later
The Seekerling flailed inside a containment pod, wings twitching, vocalizer chirping in fury.

Skywarp leaned over, already nursing a dented helm. “He’s gonna be worse when he grows up.”

Thundercracker was next to him, arms crossed, expression tight. “He recognized Optimus. He called for him.”

Megatron approached, optics locked onto the pod. The Seekerling froze, tiny red optics staring up at him. There it was again—that pulse.

His spark responded to the child before he could command it otherwise.

He reached for the glass.

But the Seekerling hissed. Wings flared wide, little fists beating the interior of the pod.

“This is... not what I expected,” Megatron muttered.

“You expected him to be calm?” Thundercracker asked.

Shockwave entered behind them, perfectly composed. “The transfer was successful. Optimus Prime now knows the value of what was taken. Which means he will come. Desperate Carriers make dangerous enemies.”

Soundwave remained silent. But his hand rested on the pod's surface for a moment longer than the rest.

Back on the Ark — Silence
No one spoke as the damage reports poured in.

The Ark was stable—for now. The Energon crystals secured. But no one cared.

Ratchet approached Optimus, who sat silently in the now-empty nursery.

“We’ll get him back.”

“They’ve taken our spark,” Optimus murmured.

“They’ve started a new war.”

Chapter Text

Nemesis – Decepticon Medical Bay
The Seekerling had been silent for all of 42 seconds.

Skywarp took that as a blessing.

“Slag, he's finally out of breath.”

The little tricolor bundle of fury sat curled in the containment pod—tiny arms crossed, wings puffed high and rigid, helm bowed. He hadn’t chirped, squeaked, or hissed since being brought aboard.

Thundercracker eyed him warily. “He’s just saving it. I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The look Seekers get right before they turn their vents inside out and scream your spark out through your ears.”

Skywarp snorted. “You think he could—”

The Seekerling looked up.

Those burning crimson optics locked onto Skywarp.

And then, like an air raid siren made of pure, young rage—

“SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!!!”

The entire medical bay trembled.

Panels shivered. Monitors spiked. Vents blew back hot air. A drone walking nearby short-circuited and keeled over. Soundwave’s visor flared white across the ship’s network.

The Seekerling screamed with every sparkbeat in his protoframe.

It wasn’t a cry.

It was a declaration. A raw, primal refusal.

Skywarp scrambled back, plating rippling.

“FRAG! WHAT IN UNICRON’S—!”

Thundercracker’s wings flared. “I TOLD YOU!”

The scream didn’t stop. If anything—it gained pitch, climbed the octave scale like jet engines winding up. Static crashed through every comm on the Nemesis.

“HE’S GONNA BLOW MY HELM OPEN!” Skywarp shrieked.

“This is not screaming. This is combat-level aerial resonance,” Shockwave said, calmly entering the lab with a datapad raised as if nothing were wrong. “His secondary vents are bypassing regulation. Fascinating.”

Megatron arrived behind him, optics narrowed as the sound vibrated in his struts.

The Seekerling paused only once, mid-scream, to gasp for air—

Then he resumed.

“SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!!”

Skywarp, shouting over the resonance: “YOU GUYS NAMED HIM RIGHT, I’LL GIVE YOU THAT! THE ‘SCREAM’ PART?! SPOT ON!”

“Optimus called him by name,” Thundercracker murmured.

Soundwave, who stood silently at the pod, tilted his helm. His visor flickered as he monitored the vocal patterns, comparing them against millions of known frequencies. He did not speak, but he knew:

This was not simply a tantrum.
This was memory.
This was attachment.

This was a spark that remembered where it came from.

Megatron stared at the Seekerling’s tiny form, overwhelmed with raw power and grief.

“He remembers his Carrier.”

Shockwave nodded. “This level of vocal resistance is uncommon unless direct neural bonds were established early. Likely at the proto-chassis stabilization phase. Perhaps even sooner.”

Skywarp was now curled against the far wall, venting heavily. “If I go deaf, I’m blaming all of you.”

Then—

Silence.

The Seekerling stopped.

Optics narrowed, his tiny helm resting back against the pod. His little hands slowly clenched into fists.

The warning was clear:

Try to take me again… and I will make the ship scream with me.

Thundercracker muttered, “And he's not even old enough to fly.”

The medbay was, for a blessed second, quiet.

Thundercracker lowered his wings cautiously, casting a glance at the containment pod where the Seekerling now sat stiffly upright, arms crossed in furious silence. Venting hard, yes. Twitching, yes. But... not shrieking anymore.

“You were saying?” Thundercracker muttered, stepping over the faintly smoking remains of a downed diagnostic drone.

Skywarp, still recovering with his back against the wall and his wings skewed at odd angles, shot a glare at his trinemate. “I’m not wrong.”

“You usually are.”

“Not this time. I heard Optimus Prime call him by name during the heist.”

Thundercracker raised an optic ridge. “What name?”

Skywarp leaned forward, lowering his voice as if it could shield him from the implications. “He called him—Starscream.”

Silence struck between them like a jolt.

Thundercracker blinked. “You’re sure?”

“I know what I heard.” Skywarp grimaced. “Screamed it like his spark was being ripped out. And then that little scraplet screamed back like his vents were gonna explode.”

Thundercracker stared into the pod. The Seekerling was glaring at Shockwave now—tiny optics ablaze like energon fire, wings straight as blades behind him, vibrating faintly.

Shockwave, meanwhile, stepped forward, analytical as ever, unbothered by chaos. “His frame is developing faster than a standard Seekerling. Likely due to advanced protoform coding or early spark imprinting. I require data.”

He extended a servo toward the pod.

He didn’t even touch the sparkling.

His digits merely hovered above the Seekerling’s central chassis.

That was enough.

“SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!!!”

The shriek detonated through the medbay with double the force of the last one.

Surgical arms jolted. Ceiling lights cracked and burst. Glass panels shattered into glittering shards. A datapad exploded into flaming bits in Shockwave’s hand. The ventilation system buckled with the sonic pressure.

“WHY—” Skywarp had to scream over the scream, “—DO YOU KEEP TOUCHING HIM?!”

Shockwave calmly stepped back, his single optic now flickering from audio overload. “Scientific necessity.”

Soundwave, still silent, had braced himself. His visor flared and pulsed with the same frequency as the shriek—recording, measuring, comparing. But his frame was unnaturally still.

This scream wasn't just resistance.

It was protest. Rage. Recognition.

The Seekerling didn't just dislike being touched.

He hated being touched by someone who wasn’t his Carrier.

Shockwave adjusted his audials. “Fascinating. This reaction is consistent with deep-spark bond trauma. He is calling for his Carrier. The pitch structure inverts at the fourth harmonic—”

“I’m gonna invert you,” Skywarp growled, hands clamped over his ears.

“He’s going to short the Nemesis if he keeps that up!” Thundercracker shouted.

Megatron entered the medbay again, optics locked on the source of the scream. Not flinching. Not stepping back. But his jaw was tight. The scream burrowed through plating and sensors alike. No Decepticon could ignore it.

“Enough,” Megatron said, voice sharp as dark steel.

But the Seekerling screamed louder.

And then—it wasn’t just noise.

It was worded.

Garbled. Raw. But clear enough.

“CAA-REEE—ERRRRRRRR!!”

The Seekerling shrieked the word like a blade being pulled through metal.

Megatron’s spark jolted.

He turned sharply to Soundwave. “Did you record that?”

Soundwave nodded.

Thundercracker whispered, “He’s calling Optimus.”

Skywarp paled. “He’s really a Carrier.”

Shockwave didn’t speak for once. Just slowly lowered his servo.

Megatron stood frozen for a fraction of a second.

Then he turned, his face unreadable.

“Get that child stable. I want him monitored at all times. No one touches him again unless he allows it. If he screams again—contain it.”

No one dared argue.

“And begin preparations,” Megatron finished darkly. “If that sparkling truly belongs to Optimus Prime, then this war has changed.”

The medbay was a warzone of sound.

Despite the orders, the commands, the screams shouted over screams, the Seekerling’s shriek pierced through every wall, every comm, every sensor filter. It was like being locked inside a sonic cannon that never ran dry.

Megatron stood at the eye of it, flanked by thunderstruck seekers, a stunned Soundwave, and a very singed Shockwave, who had lost two fingers to a volatile scanner mid-screech.

And still—the little Seekerling shrieked with such force, the air shimmered around him.

“Enough,” Megatron growled again, louder.

But it wasn’t enough.

Starscream—the name now passed from bot to bot with the growing weight of truth—was red-faced and shaking, vents flaring dangerously fast. He screamed again, and the lights flickered.

“Shockwave,” Megatron barked. “Sedate him. I will not tolerate a sound weapon on my warship.”

“That would be inadvisable,” Shockwave said coolly, shielding one audial receptor. “His neural circuits are in full panic. Any interruption could collapse critical sparkline stability.”

“Then what do you suggest?!”

“Remove the stimulus.”

Megatron growled low in his throat, stalking forward like a storm, and reached into the containment pod where the tiny Seekerling was now fully engaged in a tantrum that could destroy a battleship.

Skywarp hissed. “He’s gonna get his optics clawed out.”

Thundercracker stepped back. “I’m not cleaning that mess.”

Megatron ignored them all.

With one decisive motion, he lifted the small body from the pod.

The Seekerling flailed—then stilled.

Instantly.

The silence dropped like a guillotine.

Not a breath.

Not a peep.

Not a whine.

The Seekerling pressed his face against Megatron’s massive chestplate and clung with both arms as though anchoring himself to the surface of a dying world. His wings drooped. His vents slowed.

His optics blinked once. Then twice. Then closed.

The medbay—wrecked, reeking of ionized circuits and scorched metal—felt like the inside of a sacred tomb.

Shockwave stepped forward slowly, recording everything in a soft hum.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “The Seekerling has ceased all panic indicators. Pulse normalized. Ventilation returned to baseline.”

Megatron stiffened.

“Explain this,” he demanded.

Shockwave adjusted the ruined remains of his scanner and began pacing, voice flat but full of logic.

“The Seekerling was clearly imprinted on a Carrier unit. We can now confirm it is Optimus Prime. However—your presence has altered the expected outcome.”

“Altered?” Megatron repeated darkly, still cradling the now peacefully venting sparkling against his armor.

“It is possible,” Shockwave continued, “that your massive frame, core heat, and low-frequency field emissions create a sensory mimicry of Prime’s own chassis. The Seekerling’s neural net is underdeveloped. It confuses your presence with that of the true Carrier.”

Thundercracker blinked. “Wait… so you’re saying…”

“He thinks Megatron is Optimus?” Skywarp finished with a strange mixture of horror and amusement.

Soundwave was silent, but his visor pulsed once—bright and steady—as he scanned the sparkling's resting posture. Clinging to Megatron. Fully calm. No longer in distress.

Megatron glared down at the small frame against his own, optics unreadable.

“He… sees me as Prime,” he said, as if tasting the words and finding them bitter.

Shockwave nodded once. “Correct. Temporarily. Imprinting is fluid at this age. But the association has been made.”

Skywarp, not missing a beat, snorted. “Wow. Guess you're a great mom after all, boss.”

Megatron glared at him with death behind his optics.

“Say that again, Skywarp. I dare you.”

“Nope.”

The Seekerling stirred only slightly, murmuring a faint clicking sound before going limp again, snuggling under Megatron’s chin.

The silence held.

Shockwave was still recording. “We should continue monitoring. The implications are—”

“You’ll do nothing until I say so,” Megatron growled.

He stepped back, large servos curled around the tiny Seekerling’s frame like a fortress. For a moment, the Warlord of the Decepticons did not look like a conqueror, nor a general.

He looked like a mech standing on the edge of something fragile—and absolutely unprepared for it.

“Find me answers,” he said finally. “But you will not touch him again.”

Shockwave tilted his helm. “Understood.”

Thundercracker exhaled. “Well. This is getting weird.”

Skywarp nodded. “Starscream Junior might just have tamed the old warhorse.”

Soundwave, visor steady, watched Megatron carefully.

And the tiny Seekerling?

He slept in peace for the first time since being ripped from the arms of his real Carrier.

The warship Nemesis was not built for quiet.

Its corridors were shaped for marching, its halls for violence, its engines for thunder. Silence was a stranger here—an unwelcome one. And yet now, it hung in the air like mourning.

Soundwave stood at the edge of the command deck. Still. Watching.

At the center of the room, sprawled on his black throne of iron and scarred steel, sat Megatron.

He did not bark orders.

He did not demand progress.

He simply sat, reclined, his optics dimmed and burning low, his frame still as if frozen mid-thought.

Curled in the crook of one massive arm, tucked against his torso—was the Seekerling.

The little one had not stirred in breems. His small frame rose and fell with gentle ventilations, completely surrendered to sleep. One hand was balled up in Megatron’s chest plating. The other rested near the side of his giant Sire’s spark chamber, a faint flicker of heat leaking from the powerful core behind armor.

Soundwave said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Because Megatron’s silence was loud enough.

The Warlord stared ahead. Not at the main screen. Not at any of the Decepticons who dared pass the command deck quietly, throwing quick glances and pretending not to see what they saw. Not even at Soundwave.

His attention was turned inward.

Deep.

And Soundwave knew exactly where.

A flicker of code played on his visor—private, unsent.

::[Observation: This is not imprint confusion.]::
::[Conclusion: Seekerling has always known.]::

He watched the Seekerling shift slightly in recharge and press tighter into Megatron’s chassis, seeking his warmth with an unconscious whimper—soft, but high-pitched. A call from some long-ago data, a memory born not from memory, but instinct.

Soundwave’s visor dimmed.

That call was not to Optimus Prime.

It had never been.

It had always been to him.

The Sire.

Megatron.

The warlord had not moved when Shockwave came to him again, asking—coldly, scientifically—for a scan of the Seekerling’s spark signature. Megatron had merely lifted his optics once. And Shockwave had left without a word.

Not even he would risk it.

Because none of them—not even Soundwave—had seen Megatron like this.

His helm rested slightly against the edge of his throne. His other servo was open, resting on the Seekerling’s back, not clutching, not gripping, just there. There in the way one who has already lost something once might hold it again, unsure how to believe it is real.

Then Megatron’s optics flickered to life, just barely, and without looking at Soundwave, he spoke.

Low. Quiet. Raw.

“He was… always this small?”

Soundwave tilted his helm slightly.

He knew what Megatron meant.

Not in size.

In memory.

In how the presence of the Seekerling pressed directly into his spark like a thorn buried beneath armor that never healed. Megatron had crushed so many memories—of the war, of him—under boot and flame.

But the small wrists.

The glint of red and white plating.

The voice, high and imperfect, screaming earlier until his processor rang.

He knew.

He had known.

But he had never wanted to believe.

“He cries like him,” Megatron murmured, not to Soundwave. Perhaps not even to himself. “And yet… not. There is something in him…”

He looked down slowly.

The Seekerling, in recharge, twitched slightly and buried his face deeper into Megatron’s chest.

Megatron’s field flexed sharply, as if trying to reject the feeling clawing its way up from his spark.

“He’s mine.”

It was not a question.

It was a confession.

Soundwave’s visor pulsed once.

He did not nod.

He did not speak.

But in that silence, they both understood.

Megatron had felt it too—something ancient and furious unraveling inside him, not rage, not vengeance, but the bond. A Sire’s bond.

Too faint to be rational.

Too powerful to be denied.

And now that it had latched on again—it would not be broken.

Not even by war.

Not even by Optimus Prime.

And as the Seekerling finally let out a soft noise—content, quiet, muffled against Megatron’s spark casing—Soundwave turned silently and left the room.

Because what he had just seen…

Was not for anyone else’s optics.

Chapter Text

Megatron had not moved.

Even now, with the Seekerling curled to his chest in a sleep far too deep for one so small, his powerful frame remained locked in place—fragile in a way he had not been since the early cycles of the war.

His claws, usually so steady, trembled slightly where they brushed over the tiny Seeker’s back.

Mine.

That word still echoed through the hollow of his helm. Still crashed around inside his spark like a trapped storm. He could feel it—deep, undeniable.

The tiny Sparkling, red and silver, as infuriating and vocal as he was fragile and new.

His.

But it made no sense.

It couldn’t be.

Starscream wasn’t his. Had never been his in that way. He had never—Optimus had never—Primus.

He didn't want to follow the logic.

He couldn’t.

Because if he did, if he let that door open even slightly… he would never be able to close it again.

And yet…

“It is his,” he growled low, confused optics flashing as he looked down at the small Seekerling in his arms. “It carries his spark signature.”

Optimus Prime.

The one bot in the universe Megatron could never truly kill.

The one he could never reach either.

The one with whom he had once shared everything—ambition, dreams, war… and now?

A child?

Megatron stood slowly, careful not to jostle the sleeping Sparkling. His claws pressed against his own chassis in thought, protective, uncertain, the weight of this secret burning like raw energon in his processor.

Soundwave entered silently.

He had waited until the silence broke inside his Lord.

He stood before him now, visor unreadable. Then, gently, he raised one hand, and a projection lit up between them.

Code. Data. Genetics. Light.

And then—truth.

“Theory: Sparkling—Aerial-class. Spark signature: fused imprint.”

“Carrier: Optimus Prime.”

“Sire: Confirmed. You.”

Megatron’s expression flickered. His field pulsed with tightly restrained violence, but it didn’t lash out.

No.

He was listening.

For once, Megatron was truly listening.

“Explain,” he demanded, voice hoarse.

Soundwave’s visor pulsed once, a ripple of data spreading.

“Hypothesis: Sparkling—not a natural-born Seekerling.”

“Unusual fusion: One Grounder frame, one leader-class carrier spark. Presence of Matrix of Leadership likely catalyst.”

“Matrix contains creation code. Ancient. Capable of shaping spark-formation based on ideal traits, environmental need, and subconscious intention of carrier.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“You’re saying the Matrix—chose this form?”

“Yes,” Soundwave replied flatly. “Carrier Prime’s Matrix possibly accessed dormant aerial protocols in Sire spark. Selected Seeker-class frame for offspring. Recessive sparkcode carried by both bots—rare. Not impossible.”

Megatron stared at the child again.

The angular little wings.

The soft talons.

The bright flashes of silver and crimson across protoform plating.

The screams.

It was…

his. With Optimus.

“I never touched him,” Megatron muttered, tone lost somewhere between anger and disbelief.

But even that rang hollow now. A flicker of something else passed his optics.

“We shared a spark bond once,” Soundwave added, quiet. “Before the war. Resonance lingers. Deep. Strong. Enough to catalyze. Especially through the Matrix.”

Megatron closed his optics.

The Matrix.

That cursed thing he had once tried to rip from Prime’s chest. A relic of gods, a symbol of everything he hated.

And now—

It had used him.

Created something… pure.

Something that shouldn’t be.

Something perfectly possible.

And the proof was in his arms.

The Sparkling shifted in his arms again, wings fluttering once in its rest, and made a soft chirring sound.

It nuzzled against him again. Sought him out.

Not for warmth.

Not for shelter.

But for something older than either of them had ever wanted to admit:

The bond.

His spark clenched tightly in his chest, the feeling cutting deeper than any blade ever had.

He felt exposed.

He felt… afraid.

What did this mean? What did he do now?

Could he keep it?

Should he return it?

Would Optimus take him back? Or worse—would he fight for him?

And would Megatron be willing to let go?

That question he could not answer.

Not yet.

Starscream’s slept within Soundwave’s silent watch now, swaddled in gentle sound-dampening fields. For the first time since his arrival, the infant’s cries had ceased. But in the war room, another storm was building.

Megatron stood at the edge of the large tactical table, optics dim with the weight of a memory he hadn’t dared revisit in eons.

Soundwave, as always, stood motionless. But this time, he broke the silence.

“Megatron: You are incorrect.”

Megatron’s helm slowly turned. “What did you say?”

Soundwave’s visor pulsed once. A flicker of static preceded his reply.

“There was a time. Eons ago. You and Optimus Prime were not only enemies.”

Megatron’s voice rumbled low, sharp. “I know what you’re implying.”

But Soundwave didn’t flinch. He raised a clawed digit and summoned an encrypted record from deep in Megatron’s own archives. An overlooked log—audio distorted, but not lost. A timestamp long buried beneath war reports and casualty lists.

The voice on the log was his own—breathless, rough, laced with a vulnerability he no longer remembered how to possess.

And another voice—calmer, deeper, reluctant—Optimus.

“This is wrong,” Optimus had whispered. “We’re at war. This—can’t happen again.”

“You came to me,” Megatron had replied. “You always do.”

Then, static.

Then darkness.

Megatron’s claws flexed on the edge of the table. His frame trembled—not from rage.

But remembrance.

The moment came back to him in pieces. A forgotten night between campaigns. A ceasefire’s end looming. A moment of fragility… and indulgence.

Optimus had come to him. Not for peace. Not for war.

For something deeper.

And they had shared that night as they had done in secret cycles ago, back when they were still Orion Pax and Megatronus.

He remembered the heat. The tension. The old spark-bond between them flaring for the briefest moment, unspoken and undeniable.

And then, the next cycle—Optimus was gone.

No explanation. No signal. Missing for several megacycles before the war resumed with even more brutality.

“He disappeared,” Megatron murmured. “I thought… I thought he abandoned the bond. That he regretted it.”

Soundwave nodded once.

“He did regret it. But not because of you. Because of the Sparkling.”

Megatron’s optics blazed wide. His spark seized.

“You’re telling me… he knew? All this time?”

“Yes,” Soundwave confirmed, his voice unnaturally quiet.

“He carried the Sparkling alone,” Soundwave continued.

Megatron’s fists slammed down onto the table. The surface cracked beneath his strength, alarms chirped and died.

“Why? Why would he hide something like this from me?! He had no right—!”

But even as the rage boiled, pain bled through it.

Because suddenly, he understood.

Optimus hadn’t come back because he couldn’t.

He had carried their creation in secret. Chosen to raise the child away from war. From him.

“He left,” Megatron whispered, the words catching in his throat. “He left… because of me.”

He turned, optics searing with the weight of it.

“All those deca-cycles… all that time... and he said nothing.”

Soundwave looked at him, visor dimming faintly.

“It was protection,” he said. “Or shame. Or both.”

“Optimus Prime has always chosen what he thinks is best for others. Even if it hurts him. Or you.”

Megatron sank into his throne, slowly, the weight too much to bear upright.

He remembered the way Optimus had shouted that name during Skywarp’s escape. The way his voice cracked—not with command, but with fear.

Not for a soldier.

Not for a comrade.

But for a child.

For their child.

The Seekerling was not an accident.

He was a secret.

A secret born of war, silence… and something they had buried long ago.

Megatron stared at the tiny Seekerling again, now sleeping in the arms of Soundwave.

Starscream, Optimus had called him.

A name not chosen by accident. A name wrapped in history and sorrow.

His spark ached.

What did he do now?

He had not known how to love.

He had barely known how to lead.

And now he was something he never imagined himself becoming:

A Sire.

And worse still—he had been one alone for a long time.

The Ark’s war room was filled with static and shouting.

Monitors flashed with the last feed of Skywarp’s infiltration and escape. The walls still bore the scorch marks from the explosion set off during the chaos. Emergency protocols were still active, the internal systems rattled and flickering—but none of it compared to the storm centered at its core:

Optimus Prime.

His frame was trembling—not with exhaustion, but uncontained rage.

“Open the groundbridge,” he growled. “Now.”

“Optimus, you can’t—” Ratchet tried, moving to intercept him.

“Now, Ratchet!” he barked, servos flexing like cables on the verge of snapping. “They took him—my sparkling. I heard him screaming—he was right there—and I let them get away.”

Prowl stepped forward, arms out. “We don’t even know where the Nemesis is exactly—”

“I don’t care.”

The words silenced everyone.

Optimus turned on them, optics blazing, his body radiating energy in violent pulses.

“If I have to rip the sky open with my own servos to find him, I will.”

“If I have to burn through every Decepticon between me and that ship—alone—then so be it.”

Bulkhead hesitated. “Optimus… you’re not thinking straight.”

“I don’t have time to think,” he hissed. “He’s out there. With them. Alone. Surrounded by warships and weapons and monsters who don’t care if he’s just a protoform.”

“He’s just a sparkling,” Optimus whispered, more to himself now, more hollow. “He doesn’t even know what’s happening…”

His fists clenched. The ground beneath him cracked.

Then, when he took a step toward the bridge—Arcee blocked his path.

“We’re not letting you go,” she said firmly. “Not like this.”

“Move, Arcee.”

“No.”

Others joined her—Ratchet, Bulkhead, Prowl. Even Bumblebee, quiet but determined, stepped into place.

Ratchet spoke first, voice tight with grief.

“You think we don’t understand what you're feeling? We do. That Seekerling is one of us. Yours, but ours too. You think we’ll let you charge the Nemesis and just die trying to get him back?!”

“We fight together, or we don’t fight at all.”

Optimus stared at them, vents heaving. Fury and anguish crackled through his armor like thunderclouds barely holding back a storm. His hand reached for his blaster.

He didn’t aim it.

But he gripped it so tightly it cracked in his palm.

“They touched him,” he said, voice trembling. “They took him from my arms. From this ship. They’re holding him like a trophy.”

“I heard him scream.”

Silence.

His voice dropped to a raw whisper.

“That’s my sparkling, Ratchet. Mine. How am I supposed to breathe knowing he’s with them?”

Ratchet stepped forward and put a servo gently on his arm.

“Because we’ll get him back,” he said. “Together.”

Optimus collapsed to his knees. The rage bled out of him in one slow exhale, replaced by something worse:

Helplessness.

His fists hit the floor with a dull clang.

He didn’t cry.

But something in him cracked.

The Prime—the legend—the indomitable leader—

—was just a carrier now.

And his child had been stolen.

Chapter Text

The Ark was a fortress.

But lately, it had grown too quiet.

No laughter. No banter. Even the hum of internal systems seemed to drag in sluggish sympathy. The Autobots were still working tirelessly—scanning for signals, sending probes, decoding faint Decepticon transmissions—but the Nemesis had gone dark.

Too dark.

The Decepticons had hidden themselves in a blind spot, and nothing could trace them.

“Another dead signal,” Jazz reported from the comms. “Encrypted bounce. Wherever they are, they’re keeping it locked tight.”

“We’ve widened the satellite net again,” Prowl said. “Still no ping.”

Arcee looked to the corner of the room, where Optimus sat alone—head bowed, elbows on knees, silent.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

Not for maintenance. Not for energon. Not even to recharge.

Ratchet approached, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Optimus… please. Even a Prime needs to recharge.”

But Optimus didn’t answer.

He just stared at the small tracking map on the monitor… blank. Empty. Pointless.

Meanwhile, aboard the Nemesis…

While Megatron brooded in silence, the Decepticon seekers had decided that the sparkling they’d “accidentally” inherited needed something more… appropriate.

Skywarp and Thundercracker—after a lot of arguing and an unnecessary amount of yelling—had converted one of the auxiliary side-chambers into a nest.

A seeker nest.

Soft padding, restructured bulkhead curves to mimic a cradle, and a dense mesh of synthetic thermo-fiber netting woven around the area. A dim blue glow filled the space, set at a low comfort setting for protoform optics. The floor had been lined with discarded cloaks and silken scraps of old banners from the war. Some had even jokingly stolen pieces of Starscream’s old cape and laid it at the center.

At the heart of it all was a gently snoozing seekerling.

Starscream, curled up with one tiny wing twitching like a dreaming bird, was buried in warm cloth with a half-chewed data pad clutched in one hand.

He chirped once. Then shifted.

And bit down again—hard.

“OW!”

Ravage swatted at him with a yowl of indignation.

Starscream chirruped cheerfully and bit the panther’s tail again.

Thundercracker leaned against the doorway, arms folded and smirking. “Told you he liked you.”

Ravage glared, huffing, but didn’t move. He curled his tail tighter around the protoform—resigned.

Soundwave had even constructed a plush imitation—a Ravage-shaped doll with a retractable tail and a squeaker installed in the stomach. But the seekerling had quickly decided the real Ravage was far more fun.

Still, Soundwave had placed the toy near the nest, right beside a stack of mock energon cubes that rattled like puzzle blocks. There was even a gentle auditory loop of soft Seeker chittering patterns playing from a tucked-away speaker.

“Carrier simulation: active,” Soundwave reported quietly to Megatron.

Megatron stood outside the nest chamber, one arm braced against the wall, staring through the small observation slit.

He still didn’t speak.

He hadn’t touched the sparkling again since the first time—when everything changed.

He had felt it in his spark. The pause. The connection.

He didn’t want to believe it.

But now… watching the seekerling chirp and snuggle into a cape scrap with his insignia on it—watching the instinct in the child’s optics when he saw him—it burned a hole in his logic.

“He stops screaming… when I’m near,” Megatron murmured.

Soundwave nodded. “Correlation confirmed.”

Soundwave tilted his head. “Spark pattern recognition: consistent. Impression formed during protoform stage likely imprinted on multiple secondary carriers. Prime’s presence dominant. and Yours''

There was a long pause.

Then Megatron whispered:

“How is this even possible…”

And still the sparkling chirped, bit Ravage, and settled down to hum quietly to himself.

The low hum of medical equipment buzzed in the dimmed lab.

Cool sterilization lights glimmered across silver plating, while holo-displays rotated strings of sparkling genetic data above Hook’s operating table. The Decepticon medic had spent cycles running tests—sampling the sparkling’s protoform shell, scanning spark resonance, tracing energy frequencies embedded in the protoframe matrix.

Now the results floated, undeniable, before him.

“Hook to command,” he spoke through the comm, voice flat but precise. “You’ll want to hear this in person.”

Moments later, the lab doors hissed open. Megatron entered first, flanked by Soundwave and Shockwave, the latter looking expectantly intrigued.

The sparkling was not in the lab. Skywarp had taken him back to the nest after another round of biting everything within reach.

“Your report,” Megatron said stiffly, arms crossed.

Hook didn’t speak right away. He rotated the main display toward them, revealing two spark signatures side-by-side—brilliant blue and deep crimson. Another diagram overlapped them, showing the genetic spiral lines of the sparkling.

A perfect fusion.

Carrier: Optimus Prime.
Sire: Megatron.

Naturally conceived. Naturally formed.

“There is no mistake,” Hook confirmed. “He is not a clone, not an experiment. This sparkling was generated the traditional way—naturally.”

“By Primus…” Megatron whispered.

Shockwave stared in deep thought. “Fascinating. The seekerling’s aerial protocols are dominant, but he bears both carrier and sire coding. The spark resonance—”

“Matches both,” Hook interrupted. “And he’s stable. In fact, more stable than most seekerlings.”

Megatron stepped closer to the display, staring at the spiraling data as if it might vanish.

“So… it is true.”

Soundwave, silent until now, inclined his head. “Confirmed.”

Megatron’s fists clenched slowly at his sides.

A night.

A single, reckless, unguarded night with Optimus… so long ago. When war paused for a moment, and only they remained, raw and bitter and burning.

A mistake, Optimus had called it. A weakness.

But now, from that weakness… came something neither of them expected.

A child.

“And Optimus… never said a word,” Megatron muttered

Shockwave’s optic flared. “Curious. He must have suspected the truth.”

Hook shrugged. “Perhaps. But even he might not have known for sure. The sparkling’s development cycle suggests hidden gestation.”

“But Prime ran, didn’t he?” Megatron hissed. “Disappeared during the war. I remember. Vanished for cycles. And now I know why.”

Soundwave stepped forward, gaze steady.

“Because he feared what would happen… if you knew.”

Megatron stared.

His spark flickered with too many things at once—rage, disbelief, something bitter and foreign and tight in his chest. Something he didn’t want to name.

A sparkling. A child. His.

His with Optimus.

And now… in his possession.

Megatron turned his gaze back to the display—traced the spiraling pattern of seeker wings forming within a frame gifted by grounders. A symbol of war born into the shadow of two great leaders.

He whispered, almost to himself:

“What… am I supposed to do with him?”

Hook’s diagnostic tables flickered with new pulse readings—soft rhythms echoed from earlier scans of the sparkling’s tiny, forming spark, now nestled in the Decepticon nest among shredded cloth, energon-safe padding, and Ravage’s swishing tail.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Megatron,” Hook said, turning from his console, tone urgent. “You need to think about this quickly. A sparkling can’t stay separated from their Carrier for long.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed, his jaw locked.

“He is safe now. Safer than he was aboard the Ark—”

“Safety is irrelevant if the separation becomes fatal,” Hook interrupted, calm but cold. “The longer he remains without his Carrier’s proximity, the more unstable his spark will become. It’s not just about protection, it’s about bonding.”

Shockwave remained still, observing.

“You’re telling me the Prime’s absence is damaging him?”

“Not only him,” Hook replied. “The Carrier too. Optimus Prime’s mental state—his pain, his desperation to retrieve the sparkling? It is not just emotional. It is biological. Spark resonance between a Carrier and their creation is tethered. Even at great distances.”

Megatron’s fists trembled, but he stayed silent.

Hook continued, stepping closer.

“You said it yourself. Optimus disappeared during the war. Not to hide—to protect. He knew, even then, what this would mean.”

“To protect him from me,” Megatron growled, voice low.

“You are volatile,” Hook said without hesitation. “You always have been.”

Megatron’s expression twisted.

“Careful—”

But Soundwave cut in, soft and unwavering:

“Confirmed.”

Megatron whipped around to glare at him.

Soundwave didn’t flinch.

“Optimus Prime: calm, strategic, and centered. You: unpredictable. Destructive. Reactive. From a Carrier’s perspective… the choice was logical.”

Megatron stepped back as if struck. His optics flared, but the heat inside him had no outlet. Not here. Not now.

He remembered Starscream’s wailing. The way the sparkling had howled—until he’d been picked up.

Until Megatron had held him.

Until those little claws had gripped at his armor… and peace had followed.

“He stopped crying,” Megatron murmured. “When I touched him.”

“Yes,” Hook said. “Because he knows you. His spark does. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need his Carrier more. Spark alignment is delicate in these early stages. You can help—but you’re not enough.”

Silence fell.

Soundwave’s visor glowed faintly as he stepped closer to Megatron.

“He must be reunited,” he said. “Soon.”

Megatron lowered his head, growling softly to himself. The throne room felt colder now. His empire—his power—none of it prepared him for this.

Not for him.

Not for them.

He had no words. Only questions. And a silent aching in his spark that began to mirror something he didn’t dare speak aloud.

The seekerling was not just his. He was theirs.

And he was suffering.

In the Ark, Optimus’s optics dimmed with worry. Something is wrong.

A deep unease settled inside him, a gnawing sensation that clawed beneath his armor. His spark—a beacon of strength in the darkest times—felt heavy, unsteady.

He clenched his fist, voice barely a whisper.

“Ratchet... this isn’t right.”

The medic stepped forward, concern etched across his face.

“What do you mean?”

Optimus exhaled slowly, searching for the right words.

“The bond between Carrier and sparkling—it is more than emotional. It is... energon symbiosis. We share resonance. If one suffers, the other is affected. The longer Starscream is separated from me, the more our cores are out of sync.”

Ratchet nodded solemnly.

“The separation is taking a toll on both of you. Your spark patterns are falling out of alignment. This can cause catastrophic consequences—both physical and mental.”

Optimus closed his optics, wrestling with a storm inside.

“How much time do we have?”

“Not long,” Ratchet answered grimly. “If this continues... the bond could fracture.”

A shudder ran through Optimus Prime. He had faced countless battles, endless wars, but this—losing the seekerling who was part of him, part of Megatron too—felt like an erosion from within.

“I will not lose you. Not to the Decepticons. Not to fate.”

But beneath his resolute words was a quiet fear—a growing shadow that no armor or weapon could shield him from.

Because as a Carrier, his strength was tied to Starscream.

And if Starscream faltered, so would he.

The war room instantly shifted as Ratchet’s words hung heavy in the air. Ironhide, Bumblebee, and Arcee circled around Optimus, concern etched in their optics.

Ironhide grunted, stepping forward.

“Prime, you’re holding too much in. We need to get you to the medbay, now.”

Optimus shook his head stubbornly.

“No. I have to stay. Starscream needs me here... I need to wait him here.”

Bumblebee’s voice was urgent.

“But you’re not yourself. We feel it too.”

Arcee’s gaze was fierce, unwavering.

“You’re stronger than this. But even the strongest need help.”

Optimus took a breath, but the tightness in his spark chamber only deepened. His chest compressed like it was caught in an invisible vice.

Optimus’s optics snapped open wide, panic flaring.

“Starscream! No—!”

But it was too late.

The bond between Carrier and sparkling was splintering. Optimus staggered backward, clutching his spark as searing pain lanced through his spark chamber. His knees buckled.

Around him, Autobots rushed to catch him, but the leader was already losing control.

Optimus’s optics fluttered as darkness pressed in.

“Ratchet... help...” he gasped.

And then—

His spark flickered.

He collapsed, unconscious, cradling the screaming Starscream so far away from him and whose pain echoed inside the very core of his spark. The bond, once unbreakable, now frayed and twisted—a living testament to the fragile life intertwined between Carrier and sparkling.

In the dim command chamber of the Nemesis, a cold silence was shattered by a piercing scream—the wail of the seekerling, little Starscream.

His tiny frame writhed in Megatron’s arms, screaming with a sharpness that even shook the Decepticon leader to his core.

Megatron’s voice cracked, frustrated and desperate:

“Enough! Quiet, Starscream! Calm down, or I swear—”

But no matter what he said or how firmly he held him, the screams only grew louder—raw, agonized, unstoppable.

Soundwave’s calm but urgent voice cut through the chaos.

“Megatron, this is beyond your usual methods. The sparkling is in extreme distress.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed, teeth clenched.

“What must be done?”

Soundwave’s analysis was cold, clinical.

“The Carrier and sparkling are separated too long. Their bond is weakening, possibly fracturing. If this continues, it will cause irreversible damage to both.”

Megatron’s gaze flickered, torn.

“We must return him to Optimus Prime. Now.”

The words tasted bitter. The enemy. The bitter truth.

But Soundwave’s tone left no room for argument.

“The bond must be restored, or we lose more than just control. We lose him—and Optimus will not survive this either.”

Megatron’s grip on Starscream tightened briefly, then loosened.

“Prepare the transport. We move immediately.”

The Nemesis hummed with tension as the grim news echoed through the command deck. Starscream’s piercing screams still reverberated faintly in Megatron’s mind, a stark reminder of the fragile bond hanging by a thread.

Megatron paced slowly before the central holo-display, his armor gleaming under the harsh lights. Beside him, Soundwave, ever silent and unreadable, interfaced with the ship’s systems.

“We have no time to lose,” Megatron finally said, voice low but resolute. “Starscream’s pain is a warning—if the Carrier and sparkling remain separated, both will suffer grave consequences.”

Shockwave, already analyzing data on a nearby console, nodded. “I have run simulations. The sooner Starscream is reunited with Optimus Prime, the higher the chance both survive this trauma intact.”

Megatron’s optics flickered with a rare hint of vulnerability. “Then we will do exactly that.”

He turned to the gathered Seekers and elite Decepticon operatives.

“Skywarp, you will pilot the escort shuttle. Your teleportation ability is crucial to swift insertion and extraction.”

Skywarp’s grin was sharp. “Understood, Lord Megatron. I’ll bring the seekerling back before they know what hit them.”

Megatron looked to Soundwave. “Prepare the extraction coordinates. We’ll need precision — no room for error.”

The cassette comm-link clicked as Soundwave dispatched encrypted signals to Ravage, poised for reconnaissance.

Megatron’s hand rested gently on the small form of Starscream, who lay quiet for the first time since the screams.

“You will not suffer alone, child,” Megatron whispered, almost inaudible. “We will bring you back to your Carrier.”

Nearby, Hook and Knockout worked quickly, readying medical equipment in case Starscream’s condition worsened.

Ratchet’s voice came through a secure channel—hesitant but resolute.

“If the Carrier is within reach, I can prepare a stabilizing field to protect Starscream during transit. But the reunion must be immediate.”

Megatron acknowledged, then squared his shoulders.

“This is more than a mission. This is the fate of a legacy… our legacy.”

The crew prepared to depart.

The sleek escort shuttle doors slid open with a hiss. Skywarp vaulted inside, engines igniting.

With one last look at Starscream resting fragile in his arms, Megatron gave the command:

“Engage. For the seekerling. For the Carrier.”

Chapter Text

The war room aboard the Ark was heavy with tension. The usual hum of activity was subdued as Ratchet entered, his optics serious beneath his medic’s visor. The assembled Autobots — Ironhide, Bumblebee, Arcee, and others — turned expectantly toward him.

Ultra Magnus stood tall at the center, his stern expression marked with concern. Optimus Prime remained unconscious in the medbay, resting beneath layers of diagnostic monitors and protective shields. His spark chamber glowed faintly, steady but fragile.

Ratchet stepped forward, voice calm but urgent.

“I have just received a message from Megatron,” he announced. The room fell silent. “The Warlord intends to return Starscream to us. He says the sparkling and his Carrier must be reunited — immediately.”

Ironhide’s optics widened in disbelief. “Megatron? Returning Starscream? That’s… unexpected.”

Ultra Magnus’s gaze sharpened. “If this is true, we must be prepared. Prime’s condition is critical.”

Ratchet nodded, bringing up medical scans on the main screen. “Starscream’s vitals are deteriorating rapidly. We have little time. I recommend all medical facilities be put on alert. Immediate stabilization upon arrival will be essential.”

Bumblebee glanced anxiously toward the medbay. “What about Optimus? Is there any change in his condition?”

Ratchet sighed, his optics flickering. “Optimus remains unconscious. We don’t yet know what caused the sudden decline, but the bond between Carrier and sparkling is clear. Without Starscream, Optimus’s system is deteriorating as well.”

Ultra Magnus’s jaw clenched, a rare sign of frustration. “Then this mission is more critical than ever. We will prepare the Ark for their arrival and ensure a swift, secure transfer.”

Arcee spoke softly, “Can we trust Megatron? After all that’s happened?”

Magnus’s voice was firm. “Trust is secondary to survival. Starscream’s life—and Optimus’s—are at stake.”

Ratchet brought up schematics of the Ark’s docking bays and the surrounding sectors. “We will coordinate defenses to secure the landing zone. The Nemesis will approach on a precise vector. All systems must be ready for rapid recovery and transport.”

Magnus gave a curt nod. “Prepare the extraction teams. Ready medical crews. This will be a delicate operation.”

He looked around the room, meeting each bot’s determined gaze.

“Prepare yourselves. The return of the seekerling may change the tide of this war — and the fate of us all.”

The Autobots dispersed, moving swiftly to their stations. Ratchet lingered a moment with Magnus.

“This will be difficult,” Ratchet said quietly.

Magnus’s eyes hardened. “Then we do what Autobots do best. Protect our own. No matter the cost.”

The lights were dimmed in the Ark’s medbay.

Ratchet had drawn the curtains around Optimus’s berth, shielding the Carrier and his now peacefully resting sparkling from view. The faint hum of aligned sparks resonated softly, a pulse of life where there had once been a terrifying void.

Optimus stirred, his hand gently cradling Starscream against his chest. The small seekerling chirred in his sleep, wings flicking faintly, tiny claws now loosely clutching a bit of Prime’s chassis plating like it was his world.

Ratchet stood at the edge of the berth, optics misty.

“He’s stabilizing,” the medic whispered. “Both of them are.”

“I can feel him,” Optimus murmured at last, voice still weak. “Like a thread in my spark I didn’t know I was missing… until now.”

Ratchet nodded. “You nearly died, Optimus. Sparklings… they’re not just physical extensions of us. They’re bonded. Severing that… It was killing you both.”

Optimus looked down at Starscream again, brushing a thumb over the little seekerling’s helm. “I never wanted him to be caught between war… between me and Megatron.”

“You did what you thought was right. And it almost cost you everything.” Ratchet’s voice was gentle, but firm. “But now you have him back. Keep him close. He needs you more than ever.”

Outside the medbay, the Autobots stood guard, but their tension had eased. No attack had come. No tricks. Only the return of a sparkling—and a Prime's life.

The Nemesis was silent.

Megatron sat slouched on his throne, helm leaned back, crimson optics staring at the ceiling as if the weight of every eon of war pressed down on him at once.

Soundwave stood in front of him, silent as always.

Then, Megatron finally spoke, voice rough, barely more than a whisper.

“Soundwave…”

Soundwave tilted his helm slightly.

“…I want you to erase it.”

No response.

“Erase the memory of the seekerling. Erase that night with Optimus. I want it gone. All of it.”

Soundwave remained perfectly still, but the static around him tightened, a subtle pulse of denial. His visor flashed dimmer.

“No,” he said at last, softly. “This… is not what you truly want.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“It is,” he growled, rising. “It has to be. I was not made for this—sparkling, bond, softness. I am a war machine. My hands are stained in energon. That little seeker… deserves more than to be tied to a monster.”

Soundwave stepped forward. “Starscream knew you. He calmed in your arms. The bond is there, even if you cut it.”

Megatron’s lip curled. “And look what it’s done to me. I hesitate. I feel. That weakness nearly made me stay. I would have taken him again, held him close, kept him. But I can’t. Not without breaking everything I built.”

Soundwave said nothing.

“Do it,” Megatron commanded, voice sharp now. “Take the data. Wipe it. Let Optimus raise him. Let them be whole. That is the best path.”

Soundwave lowered his head. “Understood.”

“…And, Soundwave?”

The comm officer paused.

“Never speak of him again. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

There was silence. Then a soft, broken “Affirmative.”

Soundwave approached slowly.

He placed one hand gently on the side of Megatron’s helm. And with a flicker of data streams and neural override pulses, began the painful process of cutting memories—surgically severing fragments of spark-deep moments: a night spent entangled with the Autobot leader, a moment of peace neither thought they’d earned… and the first time Megatron had ever held something fragile.

The memory of Starscream’s tiny body curled in his arms, silent and content, slowly dimmed.

Megatron’s optics flickered.

His shoulders slumped.

And then…

It was gone.

Soundwave stood back, his spark screaming inside, but his face blank.

He turned and left the throne room, each step heavier than the last.

Megatron remained alone. Hollow.

Not knowing what he had lost.

The medical wing of the Nemesis was quiet—eerily so.

Hook worked with precision, running scans on Megatron’s frame while Knockout monitored vitals. Megatron lay still on the berth, unconscious from the neural memory severing Soundwave had executed. His system was unstable. The absence of core memories—especially emotionally potent ones—left gaps in logic, in structure. Even Hook had quietly murmured: “You may have damaged him.”

Soundwave stood in the doorway, barely upright.

His systems flickered in warning—his spark interface dangerously unstable from what he was about to do.

But he had already decided.

Megatron had made his choice—to forget.

But it wasn’t just Megatron who had touched the forbidden. The memory of that night, the moment when enemies became more than allies or rivals, when sparks aligned if only for a moment, had rippled through the Decepticon command. Whispers had existed. Suspicions. And now that the sparkling had returned to Optimus Prime…

It could never be known again.

It had to end here.

Soundwave walked away from the medbay, locking the door behind him.

He stepped into the main hallway of the Nemesis, where the elite Decepticons were assembled—Starscream's wingmates, vehicons, commanders, and old lieutenants. Each of them had, in some way, caught hints of the truth. A glance. A slip of a word. A seen datapad or overheard communication. Enough to eventually piece together what Soundwave now had to bury forever.

He stood before them, regal and silent. His visor dimmed.

Then his voice echoed over their minds—not through sound, but a psychic wave, a pulse of code and spark-song, delivered through the very link that tied him to the Decepticon network.

“Megatron… has chosen to forget.”

“You will too.”

There were murmurs. A flicker of protest. Dreadwing stepped forward. “Soundwave, wait—what are you saying—?”

But it had already begun.

A violet pulse surged outward from Soundwave’s visor. Tendrils of encoded neural static raced into the minds of every Decepticon present. Minds stilled. Optics flared and then dimmed.

Every whisper.

Every suspicion.

Every image of Megatron standing beside a Prime… every strange rumor about a sparkling with strange coding and Seeker wings…

Gone.

Purged.

Starscream? Just a seekerling rescued from war, origin unknown. Megatron? The warlord he had always been. Optimus? His enemy. Nothing more.

Soundwave’s own frame trembled.

His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

His voice came out distorted now, as if through static.

“Only I will remember.”

He turned off his own internal link. He severed the backup memory links to the mainframe. He locked everything—sealed it behind subspace firewalls.

A single encrypted data chip—deep in his core—held the truth. The story of a Prime and a Warlord, and the fragile, miraculous life that came from them.

No one else would ever know.

Not even Starscream.

And with the weight of so many minds erased, Soundwave collapsed fully, his visor flickering to black.

Knockout would find him some hours later, barely online, whispering only two words in distorted playback:

“Protect… them…”

Chapter Text

The war didn’t stop.

Not completely.

There were still clashes, still raids, still strategies passed from encrypted command lines and carrier-pigeoned through space. Autobots held their grounds. Decepticons pressed their borders. The battlefield danced with fire and plasma.

But between all that noise, there was a place where silence remained sacred.

And Soundwave stood watch.

Hidden, unseen, his form cloaked by lightbending fields and his spark signature masked behind decaying satellites and planetary shadows, he returned again and again to Earth. Not to strike, not to spy—but to watch.

To protect.

From afar.

It was on a quiet hill, not far from the Autobot base hidden deep in the American desert. Wind rolled gently across the dry grass. And there, climbing onto a ridge with wobbly steps and sharp, oversized wings twitching at his back, came a tiny Seeker.

The little one tripped—then immediately scrambled up again with an offended huff.

“Fragging gravity,” he muttered under his vents.

From behind him, the warm, steady voice of Optimus Prime called, “Starscream.”

The child turned. His face, so young yet unmistakably bright, lit up.

“Carrier!” the seekerling squealed, rushing forward.

Optimus knelt as he caught him, lifting the child with ease and spinning him in the air. The boy shrieked with laughter—high-pitched, pure, bright.

Soundwave didn’t move. Not from the hill above, where his cloaked form stood sentinel in the golden sun.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

Because he never missed a visit.

Starscream was growing fast.

Faster than most sparkling frames. Hook might’ve once speculated about Seeker energy bonds mixed with Matrix coding, but Hook remembered nothing now. Ratchet only noted that Starscream was “remarkably gifted.”

By the age of thirty vorns, the little Seekerling was already reciting astronomical formulas.

He created a functioning space bridge model out of leftover Autobot scraps.

He once accidentally disabled the base's defense grid trying to “improve it.”

And every time Optimus Prime scolded him, it ended in a tickle battle, followed by Starscream curling up in his lap with little vents puffing against his chest.

“Why don’t I have a carrier and a sire like other sparklings?” Starscream asked one day, lazily fidgeting with the fingers of Optimus’s servo.

Optimus blinked slowly.

Ratchet, nearby, looked up in stillness.

“You were sparked during the war,” the Autobot leader said after a moment, carefully. “You came from the Matrix. That makes you… special.”

“Oh,” Starscream murmured. “Is that why I sometimes hear… music?”

Optimus froze.

“Music?”

The seekerling nodded. “Like echoes in my spark. When I sleep sometimes. It’s… sad.”

Ratchet slowly set his tools down. “Residual memory echo,” he said softly. “Matrix resonance can manifest that way.”

Soundwave, watching from the shadows of the mountain, lowered his head.

He had rewritten everything—everything. Not even Optimus remembered the night beneath the stars, the temporary truce, the fragile moment when war fell away and sparks spoke truth.

Not even the Prime remembered carrying that seekerling alone, hiding him to keep him safe.

And Megatron… Megatron had long since buried that piece of himself in fire and silence.

Soundwave had ensured it.

He bore the cost alone.

Decades passed.

Starscream became a formidable presence on the battlefield—too young still for full deployment, but already flying patrols with a speed and precision that left even the twins in awe. His dual-colored coding—red and silver—marked him as different. A unique build. Not quite Autobot. Not quite anything else.

He asked fewer questions now.

But sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he stood at the edge of cliffs with the wind beneath his wings and stared up at the stars.

Soundwave remained.

He never came close.

He never let Starscream see him.

But he fought off assassins in the night who tried to sneak through Autobot borders. He erased files that might've led Decepticon scouts to certain coordinates. He ensured that no one—not even the most bitter of Mechs—discovered that the Prime had ever sparked anything.

Not even the one who had helped him do it.

It was on the last day of the solar cycle’s orbit that Soundwave returned once more. Weak now. Systems fading. He had survived long beyond his expected cycles—but only because he had to.

And now he saw the boy again—no longer a sparkling.

Now a young Seeker, sharp and proud, blade-winged and laughing as he carried datapads larger than his own chassis, spouting theories about neutron collapse engines and energon stabilizers with Ratchet.

And there—beside him—was Optimus Prime, watching.

Smiling.

Truly smiling.

For the first time in centuries.

Soundwave touched the edge of the ridge.

A part of him wanted to step forward. To tell them everything. To give them what had been taken—what he had taken, by Megatron’s order.

But then Starscream turned.

He smiled.

He beamed.

And the sound of his laughter was so clear, so bright, that Soundwave knew.

This was enough.

Even if they didn’t remember, love had survived.

Not the love of war. Not conquest. But something gentler.

Something born in one night, shared between bitter enemies who had, for a fleeting moment, become something more.

And from that, a life had come forth.

A child.

A miracle.

A Seeker with the wings of destiny and the mind of two legends.

And Soundwave, forever silent, was its guardian.

Its keeper.

Its witness.

Even if no one else would ever know.