[CtE] From the Shallows 03

[dracoqueen22]

From the Shallows
Part Three

The sky was a bright, vivid blue, with puffy streams of cotton-candy clouds drifting lazily across the horizon. Wind buffeted his armor, warm, but not as warm as the sun beaming down on him. There was a scent in the air -- organic, like greenery -- and Hot Rod realized where he was.

There had been a field of wildflowers a mile or so beyond the Ark’s crashsite. While most of the landscape had been devastated by the Decepticon’s attack, this one had bounced back and flourished. Hot Rod had often taken his free time to speed out to the field, lay back among the tall flowers, and doze. He watched the clouds drift by.

Springer never looked for him there. Springer didn’t like Earth. Hot Rod tended to take a lot of shifts on Earth because it was a time he could be guaranteed to be without Springer looking worriedly over his shoulder.

He hadn’t been back much lately.

Earth didn’t need a team.

And well, Jazz didn’t go to Earth much. So Hot Rod didn’t either.

He hadn’t been to Earth in years, which meant this had to be a dream. It was a good dream.

“I can see why you like this place. It is nothing you will ever find on Cybertron.”

Hot Rod cycled his optics. He looked to his left, and where previously he’d been alone, another mech sat beside him, head tilted back, gaze focused on the sky. Hot Rod had never seen this mech before.

He was as big as Optimus, with broad shoulders, and he was a sort of gold, copper, bronze paint all over. He was sharp angles and harsh lines, boxier than Hot Rod was used to, but weirdest of all, he wasn’t armed. Even the Neutrals went around armed.

“No, Cybertron doesn’t really have, um, growing things,” Hot Rod said.

“It used to. Of a sort.” The corner of the mech’s mouth tilted in a fond smile, if not a bit sad. “It may again. Thanks to you.”

Hot Rod blinked. “Who are you?”

Finally, the mech looked at him, and his optics were a pale, pale amber. Reddish amber. “If you don’t already know, you will in time.” He gestured to Hot Rod’s chassis. “I gave you that gift. I suspect you’ll protect it well.”

Gift?

Hot Rod touched his chest, felt the stirring of something beneath his spark. Oh. The other dream he had. The one about the voice under Cybertron and the trinket it gave him.

“Am I dead?” he asked.

The mech chuckled, and there was something warm and comforting about the sound of it. “No, Rodimus. You aren’t dead. You’re resting at the moment. It’s no small act to take the Matrix for the first time.”

“My name is Hot Rod,” he said, and then he cycled his optics as he replayed the mech’s words. “And wait. Matrix?”

The mech tapped his chassis, and the something beneath Hot Rod’s spark gave out a surge of tingling warmth that flooded his frame, and maybe coiled a bit inappropriately in his groin.

“Megatron destroyed that,” Hot Rod said dumbly.

“Megatron destroyed the physical vessel, but not the knowledge or life it contained. That returned to me.” The mech withdrew his finger and cocked his head at Rodimus. “And I held onto it, until such time as I felt it could be returned.”

“To Optimus?”

The mech shook his head. “Optimus has been an exemplary Prime. He deserves his rest, don’t you think?”

Hot Rod agreed with that. Optimus had been Prime for a long, long time. He’d suffered a lot, too. Mostly at Megatron’s hands, but still. Hot Rod paid attention. He saw things other mechs didn’t think he saw.

Optimus was tired. He led them because he had to, but he was definitely tired.

“Who should I give it to then?” Hot Rod asked.

The mech smiled at him, and something about the smile made little flipflops take residence in Hot Rod’s tanks. “I think the right mech has it, Rodimus. Don’t you?”

“I’m not Rodimus,” Hot Rod said.

A low chuckle spilled from the mech’s lips, sending shivers down Hot Rod’s backstrut. “You will be,” he said.

And Hot Rod woke up.

His optics unshuttered, brightening in an instant. His frame jerked on the berth. He stared up at a bright-white ceiling, a discordant song of beeps and chirps and droning around him. He cycled his optics, the acrid scent of sterilizer and weld-fire and paint-filler, burning at his nose.

Medbay.

He was in a medbay.

And he wasn’t alone.

Hot Rod turned his head, followed the warmth in his right hand to the mech holding it, their fingers tangled together. Jazz was conked out in the chair at an awkward angle, his visor dim with recharge, his lips parted. He was covered in a thin layer of dust, like he’d been racing on the Badlands again.

Wait.

They had been racing in the Badlands.

Memory trickled in. He recalled, vividly, racing with Jazz. The ground rumbling, opening up, swallowing him. Then dreams, weird ones, back to back. Hot Rod touched his chest with his free hand, only to startle.

He didn’t feel quite right. There was a heaviness in his chassis, like something was nestling into his chest, beneath his spark.

What the frag was going on?

“Roddy?”

He looked at Jazz again, and suddenly, Jazz was online and alert, like he hadn’t been deep in recharge a few seconds before. He lurched to his feet, hovering at Hot Rod’s bedside, their fingers still tangled.

“What happened?” Hot Rod asked, his vocals croaking.

“Still not sure about that,” Jazz said, and there was a wariness to his tone, an anxiety in the way his armor flickered, and his visor light kept shifting toward the door. He held his field away from Hot Rod, like he didn’t want Hot Rod to sense it. “You disappeared, and then we found you, and now…”

“Now what?”

Jazz gestured to all of Hot Rod’s frame. “Congratulations, I think.”

Hot Rod frowned and sat up with Jazz’s help, Jazz who seemed much smaller than usual. Or no. Hot Rod was bigger. Longer. His shoulders were broader. His armor heavier, still painted with familiar flames, but the colors seemed richer and deeper.

“Rodimus,” Hot Rod murmured. “It called me Rodimus, and the mech in my dream called me Rodimus.” He dragged his fingers over his seam. “Am I really carrying the Matrix?”

“Ratchet says you are. Feels like you are.” Jazz shrugged, like he was trying to be casual, but Hot Rod had been there, when he caught Jazz staring after Optimus longingly, and he knew what Jazz looked like when he was hiding his emotions. “Guess you are.”

He didn’t want to be.

“What does it mean?” Hot Rod asked.

Jazz shook his head. “That’s a question for Optimus and Ultra Magnus. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Hot Rod didn’t know the answer to that question. “I’m not in pain. I’m confused, but I’m not hurting or anything. I guess that means I’m okay.” He looked at their joined hands. “Thanks for staying. I’m surprised Springer let you.”

Jazz briefly offered a look at irritation before he wiped it away. “He probably wouldn’t have, if Ratchet hadn’t put his foot down.” He grinned, for a moment looking like his old self. “It’s always good to have Ratchet on your side.”

Hot Rod chuckled. “He’s a force to be reckoned with.”

“So are you,” Jazz said, and his thumb swept over the back of Hot Rod’s hand, a motion Hot Rod would dare call tender, save this was Jazz, and Hot Rod knew better. “Had me worried there, hot stuff. Try not to fall into any more holes in the future, yeah?”

“I make no promises,” Hot Rod said, as the door slid open with an announcing beep.

Optimus and Ratchet both stepped inside, and Hot Rod didn’t miss the part where Jazz slipped his hand free and backed away, Hot Rod immediately missing the warmth of it.

“You’re conscious,” Ratchet gruffly said as he hustled his way to the other side of the berth, opposite Jazz, and glared at the instruments until they spat Hot Rod’s data at him. “Maybe now you can finally tell us what happened.”

Hot Rod sighed. “I’m still not sure I know.” He eyed Optimus, who looked tired and excited and worried all at once. “You’re probably the only one who could tell me, sir.”

“Sir.” Ratchet snorted and the wash of a scan tingled over Hot Rod’s frame. “Well, you’re in pretty good shape, kid. Better even.”

Hot Rod looked down at himself again, trying not to frown and failing. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“Ratchet. Jazz. Could you give us a moment?” Optimus asked, his tone turned grave, but something his field warm with comfort and understanding. “I believe this is a conversation Hot Rod and I need to have alone.”

“Sure thing, OP.” Jazz patted Optimus on the arm and drifted toward the door, though he flashed Hot Rod a warm smile before he left.

Ratchet produced a cube of energon and set it on the table beside Hot Rod’s berth. “Make sure he drinks this. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Of course, Ratchet.”

The medic left, locking the door behind him, and Optimus carefully lowered himself into the chair Jazz had abandoned. Hot Rod fiddled with the controls of the berth, raising it so that he no longer felt like an invalid or a sparkling surrounded by his elders. Especially when Optimus gave him a long, searching look.

“You can have it back,” Hot Rod blurted, panicking, or not-panicking. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, save the heaviness on his shoulder, like a burden he didn’t want to carry. “I mean, I don’t know how to do it, but it can’t be that hard.”

Optimus gave him a gentle smile. “I think it has found the right bearer. If it was meant for me, it would have come to me.”

Hot Rod shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to carry it for someone more worthy. I mean, what do I know about being a Prime? I don’t want to be a Prime.”

“We aren’t often ready for the burdens that fall upon us.” Optimus’ smile slipped a little. He glanced at the door, as if ensuring they were alone, before he continued, “I know I wasn’t. You have the advantage here. You are not inheriting this burden from a mech long dead. I am here, and I can help you.”

Hot Rod sank into the berth. “I can’t be a Prime, Optimus.” He touched his chest, where what seemed to be the Matrix pulsed warmth at him. It wriggled in its housing, like it sensed Optimus and was trying to greet him. “I don’t… I can’t do what you do.”

“Only because you think you can’t.” Optimus patted his arm, and a crackle of static snapped from Hot Rod’s armor to Optimus’ fingertips. It sent a bloom of heat through Hot Rod’s chassis, a dancing of the Matrix in its cradle.

Hot Rod’s optics widened. “I’m sorry.”

Optimus lifted his hand curiously, examining his fingers, where the blue static continued to dance from finger to finger in a rhythm that was almost cheerful. “I’ve never forgotten what it felt to carry one,” he said, and there’s an ache in his voice, a longing. “It’s a wonderful and terrible burden.” He sighed and closed his hand into a fist, the spark vanishing into nothing. “What did He call you?”

Hot Rod nibbled on his bottom lip. “It was real then? That thing I saw in Cybertron’s core and the mech who talked to me in a dream? The gold-bronze mech?”

“Primus,” Optimus nodded. “He was probably Primus, and the ‘thing’ in the core.” He narrowed his eyes, visibly thinking, his hands resting on his thighs as though he was afraid to touch Hot Rod again. “Perhaps it was the Primal Spark.”

Yeah. That made sense.

Hot Rod rubbed at his chassis and cycled a ventilation. “Rodimus,” he offered. “Rodimus Prime. That’s what they called me.”

“It suits you.” Optimus smiled at him, but there was still something in his optics, something like sympathy. “You were unconscious for two days, Rodimus, and in that time, word of your return with the Matrix has spread.”

Hot Rod groaned and knocked his head back against the berth, shuttering his optics. “Couldn’t anyone keep their mouth shut until I was at least awake enough to defend myself?” He rubbed his face, hiding behind his palms. “Why does everything have to change?”

“Change is a way of life. If it is inevitable.” Optimus paused, as if hesitating, and Hot Rod read the reluctance in his field, much easier than he would have been capable before. “There is a small, but growing segment of the population who believes the planet should be led by a Prime carrying the Matrix. There are even Decepticons and Neutrals who agree.”

Hot Rod groaned louder. “That’s so stupid. What we’ve been doing for the past decade works. Why should we change now?”

“Tradition holds powerful sway.”

“Tradition is stupid.” Hot Rod dropped his hands and gave Optimus a sidelong look. “What do you think?”

“I think the will of the people is a powerful thing,” Optimus conceded diplomatically. “I agree that our current political situation is stable and should remain. But I also can’t ignore how important the office of the Prime is, and whether or not a Prime leads Cybertron, the existence of the Matrix can’t be denied.”

Hot Rod’s head hurt. He rubbed his temples. “I don’t want this,” he whispered.

“I know. But I will do my very best to make it as easy for you as I can. Primus wouldn’t have chosen you if He didn’t think you were what Cybertron needs right now.”

It was not a consolation.

Hot Rod drew in a long, heavy vent. “Okay,” he said, though he didn’t mean it. The Matrix was important. Cybertron needed the Matrix, he was sure of that much. He didn’t want to be the one to carry it.

But he didn’t want to be the one who turned it down, and took away Primus’ gift to all Cybertronians either.

“Tell me what I need to do.”

~

Eventually, Ratchet chased out Optimus, and Hot Rod was left alone. Jazz waited for his opportunity, waited for them to walk away deep in conversation and knowing there was soon to be a meeting among the Autobot leadership, about what to do with this political SNAFU.

Politics weren’t Jazz’s acumen. No one would miss him at the meeting.

Hot Rod needed him more. For as long as he’d have Jazz anyway, which probably wasn’t for much longer. He was a Prime now. He was important. He didn’t need a friend with benefits. He needed someone he could count on.

As soon as the coast was clear and Ratchet was far from scanning range, Jazz slipped into Hot Rod’s room without being noticed by the cameras. It was pathetically easy. Nothing was a challenge anymore. He almost missed the war.

Hot Rod’s room was dim, as if he’d been ordered to recharge and Ratchet wanted to make sure that order was followed by manually dimming the lights. Hot Rod was connected to fewer machines, but there was one which registered a steady beep.

Jazz crept to the edge to the berth, and moved to sit in the chair again, when Hot Rod stirred, pulling in a soft ventilation.

“Jazz?”

“Hey, hot stuff.” Jazz managed a smile and sat on the edge of the berth instead. “You and OP have a good talk?”

Hot Rod inched over on the berth, making space beside him. An invitation Jazz wasn’t sure he should accept. “I’m a Prime now apparently,” he said, and the complete lack of excitement in his voice made Jazz’s spark squeeze. “Whether I like it or not.”

Frag it.

Jazz climbed onto the berth, into the space Hot Rod made for him. “He give you that speech about fate and destiny?”

Hot Rod turned over with effort, on his belly as he preferred to recharge, though now half on Jazz’s chassis. “He promised to help. Teach me and all that.” He buried his face against Jazz’s shoulder, voice vibrating against Jazz’s armor. “I’m Rodimus Prime now, whatever the frag that means.”

Jazz slung an arm around him, petting his back in long, even strokes. “Ya want me to call ya that?”

“I don’t want anyone to call me that.”

Hot Rod’s field reached out for his, and Jazz reached back, let their energies tangle, though something in him ached. Hot Rod felt like Hot Rod, but there was something else wrapped up in him now, something ancient and ageless and painfully familiar.

“I’ll call ya Hot Rod then,” Jazz said. “I’ll call ya whatever ya want. This is still your choice, Roddy. Whatever anyone else says, this is still your choice.”

Hot Rod vented out, long and slow and sad. “I don’t know if I really have a choice,” he mumbled. “I have responsibility now. I don’t belong to myself anymore.”

How many times had he heard Optimus lament the very same thing, those long and dark nights during the war, when Optimus had allowed himself to be maudlin around his closest companions. The few moments of peace, taken post-battle, or early morning or in long periods of quiet from the Decepticons, when Optimus could rest and not lead.

It was a burden Jazz couldn’t take from him, couldn’t help him with, and he felt as useless then as he did now.

He didn’t know what to say.

“I like Roddy,” Hot Rod mumbled into the quiet. “You can call me that.”

“Roddy it is.” Jazz nuzzled Hot Rod, managed to tilt his face up enough to steal a sleepy kiss from the new Prime. “Sleep, Roddy. I’ll keep an optic out for ya.”

Hot Rod made a soft, humming noise, and curled further into Jazz, relaxing little by little, until recharge took him, one hand hooked on Jazz as though determined to keep him in the berth.

Jazz vented, long and low. He stared at the ceiling. He wouldn’t recharge. He couldn’t. His spark hammered, and his thoughts bounced in a thousand directions.

Hot Rod never should have had to bear this. What kind of god lurked in their core, putting this weight on Hot Rod’s shoulders? Jazz believed he could do it. He knew Hot Rod was capable. Kid had a bright spark, and that was something Cybertron sorely needed. But it wasn’t fair.

Hot Rod hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t wanted it.

Then again, neither had Orion Pax.

Jazz sighed and tucked Hot Rod more firmly against him. Primus was cruel, but maybe Jazz was even crueler.

~

Optimus stood at the window while the discussion rose and fell behind him, heated at times, cold at others, butting up against dead ends and stubbornness, making no progress. There were no easy solutions to be had. There were only attempts to be made, and results to be analyzed.

His chest ached. Far, far less than it had before he’d touched Hot Rod -- Rodimus’ -- shoulder. Now it was an ache of guilt. Of disappointment. Of anger. Guilt that Rodimus had this burden. Disappointment the Matrix had not returned to him. Anger over his disappointment.

He was as glad to be free of the Matrix as he longed to have it back. He felt incomplete without it. He felt as though he was no longer worthy of the name Optimus, and part of him wished like burning he could go back to Orion Pax.

Optimus was tired.

“At the very least, we should announce the return of the Matrix and the newly chosen Prime. The people of Cybertron deserve to know,” Ultra Magnus said, a bit of exasperation in his voice, as he’d stated this opinion more than a few times. He was big on open lines of communication.

Secrets, Magnus had told him, had been a great portion of Cybertron’s downfall which led to war. How much had the Senate hidden from them? How hard had they worked to hide their mistakes and the lives they’d taken?

“Well, we can’t hide it, so we might as well,” Ratchet said with a wave of his hand. “But I think before we announce it, we should have a plan or we’ll get inundated with all kinds of opinions.”

Optimus turned to face them and retook his seat. “Rodimus is not ready to assume any mantle of Prime-hood. I will not allow anyone to push him into the position until he’s ready, by his estimation and my own.”

“There are mechs intensely loyal to the office of the Prime and the will of Primus,” Ultra Magnus said, not to be contradictory, but to remind. “They may push to install Rodimus as the Autobot leader, and even push to make a Prime leader of a unified Cybertron.”

Springer snorted and leaned back in his chair, sitting with a lackadaisical slouch that would have made Ironhide proud. “They can push all they want. Doesn’t mean we gotta listen. We’ve had ten years of peace the way it is. People wanna go back to war? Because that’s a sure way to do it.”

“Optimus beloved,” Soundwave said, and Optimus’ spark gave a dance of warmth and affection for his partner. “Rodimus aside, Optimus beloved.”

“He’s got a point.” Ratchet rapped his fingers on the table, optics narrowed, lips forming a line of thought. “Optimus, you’ve led us through a lot of things. You’ve earned our respect, our trust, our loyalty. Primus handing out another Matrix isn’t going to change that.”

Optimus leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “The return of the Matrix heralds other good news. It means the Primal Spark lives, and with it, the core of Cybertron. We must be doing something right.”

“One can hope.” Ultra Magnus dragged in a deep, heavy vent. “What do you want to tell the people?”

“That I intend to train Rodimus. We will acknowledge his new name and title, and that he is carrying the Matrix, but we are holding fast to the democratic process which elected me,” Optimus said, though his spark twinged. He swallowed his disappointment. “If, when it comes time Rodimus is elected to take my place, I will step aside.”

Optimus didn’t dare voice the truth. How much he hoped the votes would sway in Rodimus’ favor, or that he’d be allowed to step down with dignity, without feeling as though he was failing those who depended on him.

Optimus was so very tired.

“Statement acceptable,” Soundwave said.

Ultra Magnus made a notation on his datapad. “There will be yelling, but there is always yelling. I agree. This is the best course of action.”

"Yeah, I agree, too," Springer said, and he pointedly looked around the table. "Is there anyone who doesn't? Jazz? What about you?" He looked around again. "Oh. I forgot. He didn't come to this mandatory meeting."

Ratchet sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have been dealing with this pitslag for the past two days, Springer, I don't want to hear it now."

"Jazz agreed; Contact maintained," Soundwave said, and only Optimus would be able to read the smugness in Soundwave's tone, and the cool look he gave Springer.

Interestingly, when it came down to the cold war between Springer and Jazz, Soundwave had come down on the side of the latter. Where once there had been a tense bitterness, Jazz and Soundwave had formed something of a cabal. It was terrifying.

"That's convenient," Springer said.

"It is, actually," Ratchet growled, and stood, his expression one of clear annoyance. "Because it means we can all agree and adjourn this meeting, and I can go back to work."

"I will begin drafting the announcement immediately," Ultra Magnus said.

Optimus nodded. "Thank you, Ultra Magnus. And yes, Ratchet is right. If there is nothing further to discuss, let's close this impromptu meeting. I'm sure we all have matters that need our attention."

There were few grumbles, a couple choice glances exchanged between Springer and Soundwave, but Optimus' cabinet dispersed one by one, leaving only Optimus and Soundwave behind. Optimus cycled a ventilation and let his shoulders relax, allowing the tension of leadership to fall from him like a mantle.

Soundwave moved closer to him, until their thighs touched, and a cube of energon slid into Optimus' field of view. "Drink."

Optimus managed a half-smile. "Do you ever tire of caring for me, Soundwave?" he asked as he accepted the cube, though he had been feeling much energized since encountering Rodimus and the Matrix he carried.

"Never." Soundwave slipped his hand into Optimus' unoccupied one, tangling their fingers together. He lifted it toward his mouth, mask sliding aside so that he could brush his lips over Optimus' knuckles. "You are troubled."

Ah. Such was life with a telepath. There was very little which stayed hidden for long.

"Yes. And worried for Rodimus," Optimus admitted. "He is lucky to inherit the mantle at a time of peace, and inherit it from a Prime who has not preceded him by death, but still. It is no easy task to bear the Matrix, and he's so young..."

Much, much younger than Optimus had been when he'd been given the Matrix. It had been as unexpected for him as it was for Hot Rod, and Optimus privately wondered why Primus insisted on blindsiding his Chosen with this responsibility.

Soundwave kissed his knuckles again. "Secretly, you are excited."

Optimus ducked his head, his finials twitching. "I'm glad you're the only one who can read that from me. I feel guilty enough already."

"Why?"

"Because I know how hard it is to be a Prime, and as much as I want to retire, I also don't want to pass that on to someone who isn't eager to take it." Optimus leaned in to Soundwave, resting his head on Soundwave's shoulder, counting the mech's ventilations, always a soothing cadence. "They want me to be their Prime forever, and I always thought I would be, until the day my spark passed on. Now that another option has presented itself, I hesitate to take it."

"For Hot Rod's sake."

Optimus hummed an agreement.

Soundwave's thumb swept over his palm, and Optimus focused on the soothing motion of it. "That is why you are loved."

"Thank you." Optimus' spark throbbed with warmth. He would never have imagined to have this in his future. "I promised you I would be yours alone one day. It seems Primus heard my prayers."

Soundwave's field brushed over his, sizzling with delight. "I will support whatever you decide."

Optimus cocked his head. "But you'd be happy if I retired?"

A chuckle rattled in Soundwave's chassis. "Not unhappy," he agreed, and his thumb rubbed circles on Optimus' palm. "But happiest when Optimus happy, too."

"Thank you." Optimus leaned in, stole a kiss, because he could and they were alone, and it was still a marvel he could do such a thing.

Though, at the moment, nothing more because Laserbeak and Buzzsaw slumbered within Soundwave, and Optimus was not keen on witnesses, whether or not those witnesses cared.

“I am happy when I’m with you,” Optimus said against Soundwave’s lips, because it was true, and Soundwave deserved to hear it.

Soundwave rumbled, pulling Optimus into his arms, and though it would be nothing more than chaste kisses, it was enough to soothe away the worries of the day.

For now.

~

Hot Rod didn't know this place.

He turned in a slow circle. He'd never been here before, he was sure of it, though something about it tugged at familiarity. Like maybe he'd seen a picture of it. Or someone had described it to him once.

Towering spires of metal rose up around him, evenly spaced, their pointed tips curving in toward the center as if meant to hold something. The metal was a deep, deep gray, like duryllium, but it had seen wear and tear. Pockmarks. Acid scars. Slashes. It had seen war.

In the center of them, along the ground, was an impression, a dais that fell inward rather than rising upward, wide circular platforms that led down to a central opening, big enough to fit a shuttle. There were glyphs inscribed in each platform, glyphs Hot Rod couldn't read, and there were seams along each platform, like it was designed to rotate.

Hot Rod walked around the structure, his footsteps echoing in the still and quiet with little tap-tap-taps. There was no sun, the sky bright with an unknown light. There was no wind either. It just was.

And then he wasn't alone. There was a mech standing next to him, familiar in gold and bronze and copper, broad finials, broad shoulders, hands behind his back, a distant look in his amber-red optics.

"Primus," Hot Rod said. Greeted. Acknowledged.

The mech inclined his head. "Is that who you think I am?"

"It's who Optimus said you are."

'Primus' chuckled and gave Hot Rod a smile which seemed to warm him all the way to the tips of his feet, and rise up his backstrut. "Then that is who I am."

Hot Rod squinted. "Is this what I get from now on?" He gestured between himself and Primus. "Am I going to dream every night?"

"Only when it's of great importance. It seems frequent now because the Matrix is new to you, but it won't be so in the future."

Hot Rod didn't know if that was a relief or not. "All right. So what's important right now?" He looked around pointedly. "And where are we?"

"I find your irreverence charming." Primus hummed and started to descend the step-like platforms, the glyphs lighting up in his wake.

Hot Rod guessed he was supposed to follow, so he did, and he checked to see what the glyphs did beneath him. Where Primus inspired a blue-white glow, Hot Rod's was a pink-blue glow, more purple than anything. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

"This was the Well of Allsparks," Primus explained as he gestured with one hand before clasping them again. "And we stand on Vector Sigma."

"I thought Vector Sigma was a giant computer?"

"Who says this isn't one?"

Okay. Fair enough.

"Are you going to reignite them?" Hot Rod asked.

"No."

Hot Rod winced. "Um. Am I going to do it?"

Primus chuckled again, that same rolling, tingling sound. "No. They are going to remain dark and dormant. Having a central location for reproduction benefits no one. Individuals, they are too greedy. It's too much power."

"Well, I can't argue with that," Hot Rod said. What he did know of Cybertron's history involved a few people hoarding a lot of resources -- including sparking new mechs. "Then what are we doing here?"

"There's another way. A more personal way." Primus came to a halt on the platform just before the opening, where a spiraling panel prevented anyone from falling into the well. "They may resist, at first, but you must remind them that before the Quintessons came along, this method was fairly standard."

Hot Rod groaned. "You're making my head hurt. This feels like a history lesson I didn't ask for."

Primus laughed aloud, a great big laugh that seemed to send waves of something through the air, like a sonic cannon. Beneath him, the glyphs lit up in a rush, filling up each circle from top to bottom, one after another. The air hummed, and Hot Rod vibrated. He thought maybe he should be afraid, but all it did was tingle, and the Matrix wriggled a bit in his chassis.

"My apologies, young Rodimus. Perhaps this is more your flavor." Primus' amusement was deep and rich, and as he tilted his head toward the opening of the Well, a holostate image began to take form above it. "Watch and learn."

Hot Rod twisted his jaw, but he obeyed. Two mechs took shape in the image. There was no sound, and no background, and barely any color, but Hot Rod supposed none of that mattered. One of the mechs had wheels for kibble. The other had wings.

They embraced, and then they kissed. Maybe they were in love.

The image flickered, and the background became a little more visible, if still lacking in details. They were lying together, on a berth, the grounder on his back, the flyer between his legs. Hot Rod's optics widened when he realized what the rhythmic motions meant, and his face burned with heat.

"Is that-- are you--" He couldn't complete the sentence. Did Primus really come to him in a dream to show him.... a smut film!?

"This is not for titillation, young Rodimus. It is a demonstration," Primus said, but his tone was amused rather than full of censure. "Some things are better understood when seen rather than read."

Hot Rod swallowed over a lump in his throat, and ignored the tingling over his sensornet, which started to trickle downward, toward his groin.

The two mechs kissed and embraced and interfaced, and a bright light shimmered between them. It took Hot Rod an embarrassing amount of time to realize it was their sparks. They were spark-sharing.

He gaped.

Spark-sharing was incredibly intimate and very rarely done.

Hot Rod was so glad this thing didn't have any sound. If he'd been able to hear their various noises of pleasure, he wouldn't have been able to endure. Especially with that bored look on Primus' face.

At last, it seemed, the two mechs reached their, err, completion. Their chestplates closed, sealing away their sparks. They kissed and cuddled in the aftermath.

"Okay, other than the spark stuff, I have interfaced before. I don't need a demonstration," Hot Rod said, unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

Primus gave him a Look, and in that moment, Hot Rod resented him a little, because echoes of Springer were in that look. "That's only the first stage. Keep watching."

"First stage of what?" Hot Rod asked, aghast, but Primus just pointed at the flickering image again.

Hot Rod sighed and watched.

The grounder and the flyer flickered as they went through a series of scenes. First, cuddling together, the flyer with his hand over the grounder’s midsection. It was a peaceful moment, and though Hot Rod couldn’t hear anything, he could see the affection in it. They looked like they were in love.

Again, the image flickered, until the grounder sat on a berth and the flyer waved some kind of device over him -- a scanner maybe. Hot Rod couldn’t read the results, but whatever it was, they both grinned and embraced again, the flyer’s wings flicking with visible delight.

Flicker.

The two mechs were ‘facing again, and spark-sharing, too.

Flicker.

They were in some kind of medbay. The equipment looked outdated. Shadowed mechs moved around them, devoid of any kind of details. The grounder sat on a berth, clutching his chest, and the flyer hovered with worry flicking in his wings.

The grounder’s chassis split open, like he was baring his spark, but his spark stayed hidden, and his armor parted further down, plates folding in on itself. He held his hands in front of his frame, and the flyer did, too, and something seemed to eject from his body. Something small and spherical, covered in a sheen of fluids.

The grounder's chassis sealed itself, and the sphere in his arm pulsed a dull glow before it unfurled and unfolded, forming a very, very small mech. The smallest Hot Rod had ever seen. More like a baby. He'd seen the young of other alien species, and the size comparisons were apt. The mechlet was smaller, even, than a minicon or minibot.

The grounder and the flyer kissed as the grounder held the bitlet. The flyer bent down, kissed the mechlet's forehead, and then the video fizzled to static before vanishing in a wisp of smoke.

"There. Do you understand now?"

Hot Rod gnawed on his bottom lip, gave Primus an askance look. "You're telling me we can have babies. Like organics?"

"Similar, but not the same, yes."

"But if we can do... that." He pointed at the image which was no longer there, but showing a hologram of Cybertron, set in a slow spin. "How come there haven't been any, err, accidents? How come no one knows?"

Primus turned away from the hologram and started to climb, so Hot Rod hurried to follow, taking two steps for every one of Primus’. "The coding is no longer active, and its existence has been largely forgotten. On purpose, mind. The Quintessons, and then their successors, were not keen on their workers knowing they could reproduce on their own. They wanted a population which could be controlled."

Ugh. More history lessons.

"So the coding can be reactivated then?"

"That is the knowledge you must carry back with you, yes." Primus looked over his shoulder, lips curved with amusement. "You are a new hope, young Rodimus, for every Cybertronian who's returned home."

Hot Rod winced. "I don't want to be a new hope."

Primus turned as they reached the top, and he rested both of his broad hands on Hot Rod's shoulders. Behind them, the glyphs gradually faded until they were dark again, and the hologram of Cybertron fizzled out.

"Fate rarely calls upon us at a time of our choosing," he said.

"That's pitslag," Hot Rod argued, wrinkling his nose. "You're the one who picked me. You could've picked someone else. There are loads of mechs more qualified."

Primus cupped his face, his hands warm and sending an odd tingling through Hot Rod's frame. It wasn't quite paternal, but it wasn't romantic either. Hot Rod didn't know how to identify the touch, or how it made him feel.

"You have the spark the Matrix needs, that all of Cybertron needs right now. You'll be great, a Prime of legend. You need only believe."

Hot Rod scoffed. "I'm a colony mech responsible for killing thousands. Don't talk to me about greatness."

Primus' gaze softened, from what had felt like harsh command. He sighed, long and slow, and bent a kiss upon Hot Rod's forehead. "You will see," he said, as Hot Rod's vision started to waver around him, like a heat mirage. "Good luck, young Rodimus. We will be watching."

We?

Hot Rod woke up, bright light streaming in through a window -- simulated light at that -- and the only sound in the room that of his own frame and cooling fans. The insistent beep was gone, disconnected at some point during the night.

His arms were empty. Jazz had gone, too.

Hot Rod sighed and flopped onto his belly, burying his face in the pillow. The burden of leadership, he lamented.

His comm pinged. There was a message in the queue. From Jazz.

A smile on his lips, Hot Rod activated it.

"Morning, Rodders. Sorry, I couldn't stay, but duty calls, ya know how it is. Got that weekly conference call, and Mags frowned something awful the last time I showed up smellin' like facin', so I gotta wash up first. Catch ya later!"

Hot Rod sighed again.

He and Jazz needed to talk. He didn't know if they'd get the chance. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. Not the kind of fast he liked.

Hot Rod rolled over and slid out of the berth, feeling uncoordinated and clumsy with the new weight, the longer limbs, the broader spoiler. He felt like an alien in his own frame, and he didn't like that either.

He couldn't be aberth all day, either. Primus wasn't taking this thing back, and Optimus wouldn't take it either, so Hot Rod was stuck with it. The least he could do was pass on the message Primus had given him. They weren't a dying species anymore. They had a chance.

Everyone needed to know.

***