[CtE] From the Shallows 04

[dracoqueen22]

From the Shallows
Part Four

"So. There's a new Prime." A lithe Seeker draped himself across Grimlock's back, his field a maelstrom of quickfire emotion. "Worried?"

Grimlock grunted and tried in vain to focus on his datapad. "Why should I be? Decepticons aren't led by a Prime."

"No, but Cybertron traditionally is. Mechs might push for that to happen again." Starscream's hands slid over his chestplate, talons teasing into seams.

"They can push. Doesn't mean we have to obey."

Starscream hummed and took a finial between his denta, applying just enough pressure to make Grimlock shiver. "You're one of us down to the core now, aren't you?"

Grimlock put down the datapad. "Do you want something from me, my Seeker?"

"Your attention. Obviously." Starscream's talons raked a thin line up his armor, so thin they'd be gone by morning.

"You have it." Grimlock leaned back into his embrace, let his engine rumble enough to vibrate through Starscream, who shivered in response.

Starscream hummed, and the vibrations teased Grimlock’s audial. “Just barely.” His hand skated further down, scraping the panel of his abdomen, sending little vibrations lower still. “We need to hold a meeting. Discuss the new developments. There will be repercussions.

Grimlock surged upward, spun on a dime, caught his hands on Starscream’s perfect thighs and hefted his Seeker up in a smooth motion. “”You worry too much,” Grimlock said as he spun Starscream toward the berth and laid his Seeker out upon it, Starscream’s legs falling open to invite him.

“Worry kept me alive. It’s only paranoia if it’s not true.” Starscream rose on his elbows, cocked his head, his glossa slicking his lips. “You worry too little.”

“You are a menace,” Grimlock growled, but he chased Starscream onto the berth, fit himself between Starscream’s thighs, and spread his fingertips over the flat of Starscream’s wings.

Starscream shivered and tossed his head back, his legs pressing inward, until they met the barrier of Grimlock’s. “More,” he demanded.

He demanded an awful lot.

Fortunately, Grimlock was always willing to give it to him. Within reason.

Grimlock parted Starscream's thighs and scrubbed his mask against Starscream's valve, now bared to him, smearing the lubricant against it. "I can chase away some of that worry, if you want.”

Starscream groaned and bucked up, grinding his array against Grimlock's face, leaving more slick behind. "Then keep going. Give me your mouth."

Grimlock chuckled. He rubbed against Starscream’s valve again before he took a slight step back, enough room to transform. He loomed over Starscream in his alt-mode, but they’d made this something of an art over the past decade.

Starscream moaned and canted his hips upward, thighs spread wide, valve bared and leaking. He tasted hot and sweet on Grimlock’s glossa, as careful as he was of his larger and sharper denta, though the occasional scrape always made Starscream shudder.

He pawed at Grimlock’s snout as Grimlock licked at him, licked deep, flicked the tip of his glossa over Starscream’s nub, and lapped at him like a sweet treat. He laved Starscream’s spike, lapped up droplets of pre-fluid, and went back to the plump folds of his valve, over and over, licking him open.

Starscream moaned and bucked up against him. “Oh, Primus,” he breathed, his lips swollen and raw from his own denta. “More. Frag me, damn it. Now, do it now.”

Grimlock’s spark lurched in his chassis, need pulsing hot and heavy in his lines, pooling like magma in his pelvis. “Roll over,” he growled, and delight sizzled in Starscream’s field.

He scrambled onto hands and knees, dropping down onto his elbows, presenting his aft, and what a fine aft it was. Grimlock licked over it before he took his mouth back to where it belonged most, sweeping over Starscream’s valve, laving his anterior nub.

“In me!” Starscream demanded, pushing back, fisting the berthcovers, and how could Grimlock resist such a demand? Never. Not from his mate.

He curled over Starscream -- careful, so careful, but still, this was an art by now -- and he guided himself to Starscream by memory. He caught the head of his spike on the lip of Starscream’s valve and sank in slowly, while Starscream moaned and shivered beneath him, wings twitching and flicking.

Rhythm was difficult, and Grimlock had to rely more on Starscream’s motions than his own, because his hands were all but useless in this form. Which was why it was a good thing Starscream enjoyed this so much. A ripple of charge danced over his frame, his field bursting with arousal, and then he rocked back, taking Grimlock deeper, circling his hips, grinding the head of Grimlock’s spike against the deepest sensors.

Starscream writhed, the slick noises of their movements loud in the room, the smell of interfacing so much sharper and potent in this mode. Grimlock growled, deep and rumbling, and Starscream echoed him with a moan. He shoved back, aft impacting with Grimlock’s pelvic array, a light clang of metal on metal.

Overload spilled over Starscream’s frame in a sinuous wave of crackling charge and flicking wings. His valve clamped down, tight and wet, milking Grimlock’s spike. He roared, pumping hard and fast into his own overload, wobbly legs setting him off balance. He slipped free at the last moment, his spill painting the back of Starscream’s legs and aft and valve.

Grimlock transformed between one vent and the next, scooping Starscream into his arms, and was rewarded with a pattern of messy kisses over his facemask.

“I’m getting you dirty,” Starscream said as he squirmed, smearing their combined spill over Grimlock.

“That’s what the washracks are for,” Grimlock retorted as Starscream wrapped his legs around Grimlock’s waist, hips rolling, grinding his valve over Grimlock’s softening spike.

Well, if Starscream kept this up, it wouldn’t be softening for long.

“I thought you wanted to call a meeting?” Grimlock asked, cupping Starscream’s aft and holding him closer for the grind.

Starscream rolled his optics. “I know what I said.” He dug his talons into an armor seam, pricking the cables beneath. “Don’t mock me. Make better use of our time by putting that spike back in me.”

Grimlock chuckled and rubbed his cheek against Starscream’s. “Yes, sweetspark.”

“And don’t call me that!”

~

Xaaron read the announcement three times before he believed it. There was a cautious hope in his spark. As much as he abhorred the war, and the leadership which had led to its inevitability, he still believed in Primus. He believed in the sanctity of the office of the Prime, for all that some of the previous occupants didn't deserve the title.

A new Prime. A new Matrix.

A new beginning.

There were infinite possibilities now. Scores of information to be found in the Matrix. Ways to save themselves and their planet, ways to restore the things which had been lost.

Ways to rock the current political balance.

Xaaron rested the datapad on his desk. He sat back in his chair, shuttered his optics, and he considered.

Many would protest a new, Matrix-given Prime. They would see it as a return of the old regime. Others would welcome it, relieved at last to have a leader granted to them by Cybertron itself. There would be those loyal to Optimus, Matrix or not. Some might protest a newbie, and a youngling of often brash behavior like Hot Rod.

Rodimus Prime.

A miracle and a complication.

Xaaron steepled his fingers together, resting his elbows on the arm of the chair. He'd won leadership of the Neutrals through successive elections. His people might worry he'd bow to the Prime, bring him under the Autobot banner.

No.

If Xaaron were to guide the Neutrals under any banner, it would be the nascent United Cybertron, currently under discussion among himself and Optimus and Lord Grimlock. He had no wish to merge factions. He wanted unity without one.

Xaaron sat for a moment longer before he sent out a summons for a council, those elected to help advise Xaaron and relay the will of the common mech. Skybyte and Metalhawk were both among this council, and Xaaron was certain they'd have a lot to say on the matter. Skybyte would be worried about possible Decepticon retaliation. Metalhawk, no doubt, would express concerns about the Autobots attempting to use their new Prime to affirm their right to Cybertron. He would have to be reminded he could only advise. He’d lost the moral high ground long ago.

Ach. What a headache.

A miracle and a headache.

~

These weekly conferences were a boring, time-consuming, tedious necessity.

Starscream enjoyed his position as Grimlock's second, for all that he'd wanted to lead the Decepticons, he discovered the true power lay in the leader's right hand. Grimlock relied on him for a great many tasks, and he actually listened to Starscream's advice. As second, Starscream influenced everything, but Grimlock was the one stuck with most of the paperwork and the boring meetings.

It was win-win as far as Starscream was concerned.

He could, on occasion, even skip these weekly conferences if there was nothing urgent to discuss, and all matters could easily be handled among Grimlock, Optimus, and Xaaron.

Unfortunately, today's meeting was not such a one. The arrival and revelation of a new Prime and a new Matrix threw everything out of balance, and it was something that required the entire command staff of each of the three factions.

Ratchet, Springer, and Perceptor were here, when rarely were they required to attend the conferences. The Decepticons themselves also had Deathsaurus, Knock Out and Flatline both, and Axiom in attendance. Among the Neutrals, rare faces in the form of Brainstorm, Ambulon, and Krok sat around the table, though the latter was a true neutral, rather than a member of the neutral faction.

It had not yet devolved into an argument, but Starscream was pretty sure they were on their way to one. It was a bit inevitable.

"The fact Hot Rod now carries a Matrix is irrelevant," Optimus said, for perhaps the third time since the meeting started, his hand rubbing his face. "He's not going to immediately ascend to leadership of the Autobots, and he's certainly not going to demand everyone fall under his banner. He's far too young and inexperienced."

Metalhawk was front and center this time, rather than lurking in the background, and how he’d managed this, Starscream didn’t know. Words will be had with Skybyte later, rather than disrupt the flow of the discussion now. If they couldn’t keep Metalhawk leashed, he’d be barred from future conversations.

No matter his reasons, Metalhawk had attempted to destroy the peace and kill several members of Autobot and Decepticon command. He might still have favor with some of the Neutrals, and he was under Jazz’s thumb Starscream suspected, but he was still a criminal in Starscream’s optics.

Metalhawk scoffed, "Inexperienced now, but he will learn soon enough, will he not?"

Optimus sighed.

"No one at any of these tables wants to return to war," Ultra Magnus said. "This situation is a surprise to everyone. No one knew such a thing were possible."

"But we should be glad," Perceptor said, and in his peripheral vision, Starscream saw Brainstorm sit up straighter and wriggle his fingers in a wave, though Perceptor ignored him with practice.

They were seeing each other. Starscream knew this. But Perceptor was slippery prey, and Brainstorm an inexperienced predator. Their courtship was something of a dance that would last decades, Starscream was sure.

"If Hot Rod has been given the Matrix, it means Primus lives, and so does the Primal Spark. Cybertron itself will live again. That is something to be celebrated," Perceptor said.

"It is the only thing to celebrate," Skybyte growled. He glared at the screen. "And all those artifacts you rescued? They were useless to you without a Matrix-blessed Prime. Now that you have one, you have far too many weapons at your disposal."

"Weapons we don't intend to use," Optimus said.

Metalhawk scoffed again. He was a one-note mech. "And all we have is your word on that."

"Optimus is many things, but dishonorable he is not," Grimlock growled, a pointed glare directed at Metalhawk who colored and snapped his jaw together and sat back. Starscream almost beamed with pride, and yes, he did agree.

While he would never be an Autobot, and he abhorred some of their softer practices, he had always found Optimus to be an honorable mech. Some of his subordinates on the other hand, well... they were the ones Starscream did not trust.

Namely Jazz.

Skybyte rolled his optics. "That's all well and good, but no offense Optimus, you aren't the one capable of wielding these weapons. Rodimus Prime is, and it's his honor we don't know or trust."

Ah. And there it was. The crux of the matter. Optimus had earned trust, but this Hot Rod, this Rodimus Prime, was an unknown entity.

Silence fell, and in it, Soundwave stirred, lifting a hand to his comm. His visor flashed, and Starscream knew his tells. He leaned in toward Optimus, must have murmured something, because Optimus sighed and nodded.

"Rodimus is online and seeking entry into this conference," Optimus said. "I am inclined to allow it, as he is the topic of discussion. You can ask his intentions yourself."

"Proceed," Xaaron said.

"Let him in," Grimlock said.

Starscream straightened in preparation for this. It was sure to be interesting.

Optimus nodded, and Soundwave stood to open the door. A mech, brightly painted in orange and red and dark pink, strode into the room. He was unfamiliar to Starscream, but then, he had never paid much attention to the Autobot infantry. Besides, from what little he knew, Hot Rod had been wandering around with Ultra Magnus' crew, and they'd spent most of their time harrying Shockwave on Cybertron.

"Rodimus, welcome," Optimus said, and the expression flickering across Hot Rod's face was one of abject discomfort.

"Can we not use that name?" he asked. His gaze slid around the room, flicked to the monitors, but it lingered longest on Jazz, who seemed determined to avoid looking at the new Prime.

Interesting.

"It's what you are now. Learn to accept it," Metalhawk said, and Starscream's armor rankled just listening to the pompous aft's voice.

Xaaron lifted a hand, however, and Metalhawk fell silent. "We are interested in your intentions for Cybertron, now that you have been gifted the Matrix, young Prime."

Rodimus shook his head. "First of all, not a Prime no matter what this thing in my chest says, and second of all, I don't have any intentions. Like none whatsoever. I didn't have intentions before I got the Matrix, so I definitely don't have any now."

Starscream stifled a laugh. Oh, he liked Rodimus. He was quite refreshing.

"And third of all," Rodimus continued, raising his voice a little louder, "I only interrupted this conference because if I don't, Primus is going to keep bugging me, and I really want a good night's sleep, so I came to tell you what he told me."

"Oh, please," Starscream purred, waving one hand in invitation. "Do tell."

Rodimus nodded. "Well, not that I need your permission. I was gonna do it anyway."

Starscream chuckled while Ultra Magnus gave Rodimus a stern look. "Rodimus, you need to show some respect."

"I'm not Rodimus," he hissed and leaned forward, planting his hands on the table. "And I'm not your Prime. I'm just a messenger."

Optimus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please deliver the message. We can discuss the rest later."

Starscream leaned in to Grimlock. "You're right. He's not a problem for us to worry about."

"He's Optimus' problem," Grimlock murmured in agreement.

Rodimus huffed. "Fine." He looked up, gaze skimming over everyone. "I'll start with the short version. He told me how to fix the population problem. We're not getting Vector Sigma or the Well back, which is the bad news, but the good news is, we don't need them. We can do it ourselves."

"Ourselves?" Jazz echoed. "What the frag's that supposed to mean?"

Rodimus flinched and didn't once look at Jazz. Curiouser and curiouser. "Exactly what it sounds like. Apparently we have some kind of latent code in our frames that allows us to reproduce on our own. All we need to do is reactivate it."

"I... excuse me, what?" Metalhawk spluttered, for once sounding shocked rather than disdainful. "Do you mean to imply we are capable of breeding like organics?"

Rodimus rolled his optics. "Well, I wouldn't use that term, but yeah. We are." He grinned, and it was sharp and irreverent. "Primus showed me a video of how."

Stunned silence. Except for Jazz, who started to giggle.

"Rodimus," Ultra Magnus said, in a tone so stern, one might confuse him for Rodimus' caretaker, "Are you attending this conference to imply that Primus not only told you we could revitalize the population, but also that he showed you some kind of.. of..."

"Porn?" Brainstorm supplied, and he leaned forward, intent and eager. "Did you happen to get a copy of it? For, uh, scientific research and all."

"I wish I did, honestly. That would've made this a lot easier." Rodimus gestured around. "Sorry, you're stuck with my pitslag of an explanation, but it was Primus' idea not mine."

"Blasphemy!"

"This is ridiculous."

"This is no time for a joke, Hot Rod."

"Have you no shame!"

Predictably, there was outrage and uproar. Starscream did not take part. He was too busy contemplating. He rapped his fingers on the table. It was actually not entirely absurd. Their interfacing system made little sense for non-biological entities. There were also vast swathes of their coding still unexplored and unidentified.

It was not outside the realm of possibility.

“Hold,” Xaaron said, and the calmness in his tone was enough to cut through the bluster, restoring some order to the conference. “The young Prime may not be incorrect.”

“Yes.” Cyclonus nodded in slow agreement, his face pinched with thought. “I seem to remember, distantly, something similar to what he speaks.”

Huh.

Well, given that Xaaron and Cyclonus both were among the eldest living Cybertronians, Starscream was inclined to believe them.

“There are vestigial organs in our frames which no one has ever been able to account for,” Ratchet mused aloud. “They regenerate themselves if damaged or removed, and for the most part, we ignore them. I read a thesis once as well, on the possibility of our spike-valve system having another function. That medic was laughed out of the board.”

“No one wants to think of us having anything in common with organics. Duh,” Knock Out said, his face wrinkled with disgust. “I think I read that thesis, too, out of a sense of morbid curiosity. It sounded ridiculous. Who’d ever heard of a pregnant metallic?”

Rodimus shook his head. “It’s similar, but not the same.” He gestured to his chassis, somewhere between his chest and belly. “The mechlet grew here, and the chest opened up and it came out, but it wasn’t, um, birthed.”

“Primus didn’t happen to provide an instructional guide, did he?” Ratchet asked in a dry tone, humor curving at his lips.

“That would be too convenient, Ratchet. You know how deities work,” Starscream said with a smirk. Amusement and excitement warred within him.

Imagine! Not having to wait for approval or for the mercy of the Senate. The dwindling Seeker population could rebuild all on its own.

Ultra Magnus held up a hand. “I apologize, but this sounds utterly ridiculous. If we were capable of such a thing, why have we not heard of it before?”

“You want the short answer?” Rodimus asked with a roll of his shoulders. He flicked his hands into the air. “Control. Quintessons didn’t want a population they couldn’t manage, and the Senate came along and thought, gee, that’s a great idea. Let’s make sure no one can do anything unless we allow it.”

Starscream wished the baby Prime didn’t make so much sense. Logic shouldn’t come out of a mech painted in garish flames and attitude.

“And the long answer?” Xaaron asked.

Rodimus sighed, his shoulders sank, and he looked very much like a young one forced to attend lessons. “I really, really hate history lessons.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Let’s see if I can sum this up.” He rolled his optics, looked at the ceiling. “So they wiped the memory of it from all the mechs they could. They started claiming natural-born mechs were inferior to Sparked or Well-born mechs. So by the time we fought off the Quintessons, most of us didn’t know we were supposed to remember this and those that did…” He trailed off and shrugged. “Well, they either died or purposefully hid the truth.”

“I imagine relying on Vector Sigma or the Allspark was simpler as well,” Optimus mused aloud, head tilted in thought. “Those mechs emerged fully born, with enough basic programming to function as adults. I take it these natural-born mechs were not so lucky?”

Rodimus shook his head. “I don’t think so?” He rubbed the back of his head. “I mean, I didn’t see much, but that looked like a baby to me.”

“Time-consuming to raise then. And more resource heavy,” Xaaron mused aloud, one thumb on his chin, though interest vibrated in his voice. “Yes, I can see how it would gradually fall out of favor, how it would be erased from common knowledge until it was forgotten or purposefully concealed. Lucky for us, then, that it exists.”

"Lucky?" Ratchet echoed, and he snorted. "We don't know anything about this process, how it works, how a tiny mech grows and learns. This is dangerous information. And worse, if we were to just dispense it willy-nilly, it's irresponsible!"

Rodimus rolled his optics again. He seemed to do that a lot. "Look, organics have it figured out. I'm pretty sure we can, too. It's supposed to be natural. Who needs an instruction manual for that?"

"It would be unethical to withhold this information from the population at large," Ultra Magnus said, and Starscream was glad he did, because the words were on the tip of his own glossa. Who were they to decide who could and couldn't have this information?

"I don't want to control this," Optimus agreed aloud. "This was taken from us once, by mechs who decided it was their right to control us. I won't have that again. Anyone who wants to receive the update may do so."

Ratchet scrubbed his forehead. "I'm not saying we shouldn't tell people about this, I'm just saying we should delay for a little bit. See what we can dig up out of the archives, get a few scientists together to discuss the particulars, come into it fully informed, and then disseminate the code."

"That suggestion is not without merit," Xaaron said with a slow nod. "After all, gaining access to the code is not the same as immediately understanding how to make use of it. More helpful would be providing mecha with a basic understanding as we distribute the update."

"Could always ask for volunteers," Grimlock said, and his tone affected boredom, but Starscream knew better. There was excitement and interest brewing in his spark, and Starscream had to admit, he felt the same.

They would have to talk about this.

"I can think of a few mechs who'd be willing to be the guinea pigs," Grimlock added.

"Guinea pigs?" Xaaron echoed, with a tilt of his head.

Jazz waved his hand. "Ya'll really oughta read the Earth guide I wrote up for everyone. They got the most interesting idioms."

"Grimlock means someone who is willing to be the first to try the coding, to go through the process so as to provide a first-hand account of it," Starscream clarified, and he shifted in his chair, casting his mate an askance look. "I can think of a few mechs willing as well."

Optimus steepled his fingers together and leaned forward against his table. "I'm willing to consider a delay so long as we set a timetable and stick to it."

"In other words, no matter what your research discovers, we release access to the code as soon as the timetable is up," Starscream said. He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "I think that's acceptable. And responsible."

"Freedom to choose is important," Grimlock said, and his voice had a low, resonant firmness to it which made heat trickle into Starscream's belly. "But without the proper information, is it really a choice at all?"

The Neutrals had been whispering amongst themselves, and now Xaaron offered, "We agree. A delay is reasonable. Though it would go far to show a little trust by releasing the code to those of us present."

"Done. Send me your comm code," Rodimus said, before anyone else could speak up, and though there was a storm on Ultra Magnus' face, no one protested.

Optimus cycled a ventilation -- audible enough for the microphones to detect it.

"You all have a month," Rodimus continued as he pushed himself upright, shoulders squaring, suddenly looking more like a Prime. "After that, I'm giving the override to anyone who wants it. Primus told me it's supposed to be for everyone, so that's what I'm going to do."

"I do believe that is both fair and reasonable," Cyclonus said. "Is there anyone opposed to the current plan of action?"

Silence.

Rodimus grinned. "Well, that's settled." He dusted off his hands, spoiler twitching upright in a show of glee. "My work here is done. Can I go now?"

Jazz snorted and buried a laugh behind his hand.

"You invited yourself in here, Roddy, I think whether or not you go is up to you," Springer pointed out, his face twitching as he tried to sound stern, but couldn't hide his amusement.

"You are going straight to your quarters to rest. You're still assimilating the Matrix," Ratchet said, and his tone brooked no argument.

Rodimus wrinkled his nose. "I feel fine."

"Rodimus, even I know better than to argue with Ratchet when it comes to my physical health," Optimus said.

Rodimus sighed, shoulders slumping, and he trudged to the door -- immediately resembling a youngling rather than the Prime he'd briefly shown himself to do. "Fine. I'm going. I don't want to be part of this boring stuff anyway."

"Get used to it, hot stuff, it's your future," Jazz said, and Rodimus shot him a look, a paragraph's worth of conversation passing between them before Rodimus vanished out the door, it closing and locking behind them.

"Well," Starscream said with a bright grin and thinly concealed glee. "Is there anyone still worried about what Rodimus Prime intends to do?"

~

Drift waited for him outside of the conference room, pretending to be casual as he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, head tipped back as if taking a stasis nap.

"Springer send you?" Hot Rod asked.

"He just wants to make sure you find your way to the right place." Drift's optics onlined and he pushed off the wall. "How you doing, Roddy?"

"I've been better." Hot Rod sighed as Drift fell into step beside him, not so easily matching pace now that Hot Rod had a head's worth of height to him now. "How're the Twins?"

Drift smiled, and it was soft and bright, full of so much affection it made Hot Rod's spark ache. He touched his chasiss. "Sunstreaker's painting. Sideswipe is haggling with Swindle over the price of something."

"They're good then?"

"Better. A lot better." Drift tucked his hands behind his back and nudged Hot Rod toward a different hall, not the exit but the walkway to the command living quarters.

"Where are we going?"

"To your hab. They assigned you a new one," Drift said.

Hot Rod frowned. "Assigned? What was wrong with the apartment I had before? I picked that one out myself."

"It wasn't good enough for a Prime."

Hot Rod cringed. He swung in front of Drift and stopped, forcing Drift to stop, too. "Please don't tell me you're buying into that slag. I'm not a Prime."

"You are. But I understand you're not ready for it yet." Drift clapped his shoulders, reaching up to do so, and leaned his forehead against Hot Rod's. "Don't worry, you're still Roddy to me."

Hot Rod shuttered his optics. He cycled a ventilation. "You won't treat me any different?"

"Not if I can help it."

Thank Primus.

Hot Rod's shoulders sagged. Some of the tension drained out of him. "I'm not ready to be Rodimus Prime. I don't know that I even want to be."

Drift squeezed his shoulders, and Hot Rod took comfort from it. "You have time to think about it at least. You know Optimus is going to help you as much as he can. I'm here for you, Springer always has your back, and Jazz--"

Hot Rod snorted. "I'm going to stop you right there." He patted Drift's hands and took a step back. "Jazz is just a friend with very good benefits. I can't expect him to want to deal with this."

"But you want him to."

Hot Rod started walking and Drift hurried to catch up, though because he was Drift, he managed to do it elegantly and gracefully, while Hot Rod sounded like a rampaging Sharkticon.

"I know better than to want that," Hot Rod said quietly.

"The very fact that you do means you and Jazz need to have a conversation," Drift said, and it wasn't anything he hadn't said before.

Hot Rod shook his head. "I know how that conversation will end, and I don't want that. I'm fine with things the way they are."

Drift gave him a Look. "Lying is not one of your strong suits. Guess that's why Primus likes you."

"Can we not talk about either of those subjects?"

Drift stopped in front of a door, and as Hot Rod took a moment to actually look around, he realized the hallway was unfamiliar to him, but only in the sense he'd never been here before. It was the same building where Optimus lived with Soundwave. And Ultra Magnus.

"Kind of impossible to ignore one of them," Drift said, and gestured to the control panel which glowed an unwelcoming orange at them. "They keyed it to your energy signature."

Hot Rod gnawed on the inside of his cheek and pressed his hand to the panel. It chimed cheerfully and the door whooshed open, lights immediately illuminating the space within.

'Welcome home, Rodimus Prime,' an automated voice said.

First of all, that was going to have to go.

"After you," Drift said with an exaggerated bow.

Hot Rod sighed, and he stepped into what was apparently his new home, though he was a little annoyed they hadn't asked him first. What was wrong with his old apartment? It was a good size for a bachelor. Easy to clean. Close to his friends and unit. Far from his brother.

He liked his old apartment.

Though to be fair, this one was nice. Easily twice the size, with a massive main room filled with furniture that looked comfortable and new. It had a balcony and big windows and glass doors. There was an energon prep and storage room, a private washrack, and two berthrooms -- one for himself and one for guests.

"This is ridiculous," Hot Rod spluttered, turning in a slow circle, his spark spinning into a smaller and smaller ball. "I can't live here. This isn't me."

"It is now." Drift surveyed his new apartment with him and nodded approvingly. "Huh. I'm a little jealous. I should tell my twins we need to find a new place."

"I hate it."

"No, you hate what it represents."

Hot Rod revved his engine. He hated how right Drift was. Hot Rod enjoyed the space, the personal washrack, the gigantic vidscreen, the balcony and the view. He did not like that the choice was made for him, that all of his belongings were in his old, smaller apartment that he'd found and fixed up and made his home, all on his own.

This was a place for a Prime to live, and Hot Rod was not a Prime.

"It's a lot to take in, I know," Drift said as he knocked shoulders with Hot Rod, his field offering comfort and solidarity. "Get some rest, like Ratchet said. I'll come back later and we can go get your stuff, officially move you in. Sound good?"

"Do I really have a choice?" Hot Rod asked.

Drift patted him on the shoulder. "You know you do. Just like you know you're not the type to run away either. I believe in you. Try believing in yourself, yeah?"

Hot Rod gave him a playful push toward the door. "Go snuggle those twins or something. Quit pretending like you're old and wise already."

"It's not pretending if it's true," Drift said, but he let himself out, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he did. "Rest. I'll be back later."

Hot Rod didn't want to rest. Saying as much would be pointless, so he didn't.

He flopped down in the fluffy couch, which cushioned his spoiler in a fine foam, and groaned with the decadence of it. He could've gotten this in his own apartment, if he wanted. There was less of an economy on Cybertron and more a sense of everyone contributing for the greater good. He didn't have to worry about not being able to afford things.

Somehow, this still felt too extravagant. Like he was in a place he didn't belong.

A cold, empty place.

He should have asked Drift to stay.

Hot Rod sighed. He considered his comm. As long as he was saying goodbye to the things he wasn't anymore, he supposed he might as well get this rejection over as well.

He dialed Jazz. Maybe the meeting was still in full-swing, maybe not.

There was no answer. Hot Rod left a message, part of him doubting it would ever be returned. They were friends, they shared a berth frequently. From the outside, it looked as though they were dating, but Hot Rod knew better. No strings attached, that was the agreement. Jazz didn't want strings.

And Rodimus Prime came with a Pit of a lot of strings.

Hot Rod wandered around the apartment again. He opened the door to the balcony and stepped out, leaning on the rail to look over Polyhex, the mix of old and new construction, puffs of smoke rising in the sky from industry, mechs milling about below. Far, far less than there used to be, according to the history vids.

He sort of wished he could have been here, for the Cybertron that was. Nyon Delta had been large for a colony, but nothing like the tall spires and crowds of Cybertron. Somedays, Cybertron didn't feel much like home. But since Hot Rod had burned his own, well, he supposed he didn't have a right to long for it.

His door chimed, audible even from the balcony.

Hot Rod answered it, dimly hoping it would be Jazz, but unsurprised to find Springer on the other side of the door. "I see you found my new apartment," he said.

"It's only a few floors above mine." Springer grinned and sort of leaned forward, peering over Hot Rod's shoulders. "Pretty nice, little bro. Can I come in?"

"Are you going to yell?" Hot Rod asked warily, stepping aside.

"Since when do I yell?"

"Always."

Springer chuckled and before Hot Rod knew it, Springer swept him into an embrace, though it wasn't as easy as it used to be, since Hot Rod was as tall as Springer now, though still less massive.

"You had me worried," Springer said with a chassis-creaking squeeze. "When Jazz said you'd vanished, I nearly had a spark-attack."

Hot Rod sighed and let himself be squeezed. "I'm fine. You gotta stop worrying so much. You know I can take care of myself, right?"

"Recent events would suggest otherwise."

"Recent events are statistical anomalies and shouldn't be taken as the standard," Hot Rod parroted back, just as Ironfist had taught him, and a rolling chuckle rumbled through Springer's frame as he set Hot Rod back down on his feet.

Springer laughed. "I'm never going to forgive Ironfist for teaching you that." He cupped Hot Rod's face, looking him over. "How're you feeling? Really?"

"Healthy, I guess. I mean, I'm tired, but apparently that's normal?" Hot Rod slipped out of Springer's embrace. He loved his adoptive brother, he truly did, but Springer smothered him more often than not, and Hot Rod had reached the point of oversaturation. "The conference over then?"

"Yeah. Has been since a few minutes after you left. There was a lot to think about so we decided to reconvene later. Probably you'll have to come."

Springer followed him into the main room, and they both flopped down into comfortable furniture.

"Can't wait," Hot Rod lied. He slumped in the chair, suppressing a sigh, but unable to stop his frown.

Springer looked around. "You're alone?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Hot Rod asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Springer shrugged, like he was trying to be nonchalant, but Hot Rod wasn't stupid, and Springer was as transparent as glass. "Thought Jazz would be here is all. He certainly cut out of the conference as soon as he could."

And there it was.

Hot Rod sighed. "Can we not right now?"

"I'm just making an observation."

"No, you're trying to stick your nose into my business. Again."

Springer frowned, and his armor bristled. "I'm worried about you."

Hot Rod shook his head. He'd reached capacity for the pitslag burying him, and this just took the top of the heap. "You don't approve of Jazz, not that it's your place to approve of him, and so you keep trying to obviously and subtly get me to walk away from him."

"You're going to get hurt," Springer said, exasperated, engine giving a dull roar before he set it back into an idle. "I'm not going to apologize for not wanting that to happen."

"Then I get hurt," Hot Rod snapped and sat back in the couch, suddenly exhausted when he hadn't been before. "That's what happens. Mechs get hurt. That's life. It's my choice, my life, and my mistakes to make. Just leave me be already."

Springer opened his mouth, but then he clamped it shut again. He sighed an aggrieved sigh and pushed to his feet. "You're a Prime now, Roddy. That comes with certain expectations. I don't aim to tell you what to do, I just want you to keep that in mind."

Expectations that didn't include an association with Jazz, Hot Rod gathered.

"Noted," he said.

"Get some rest," Springer said, and yes, there was genuine concern in his optics. For all the irritating bluster he spat about Jazz, Hot Rod understood Springer cared for him.

He just had poor ways of showing it.

"I will," Hot Rod said with a sigh, a concession, and he knew it.

Springer left.

Hot Rod rose from the couch, dimmed the lights, made sure the main door and the balcony were locked. He wandered into the berthroom with the largest berth and flopped down on it, face first. It was quiet in here, nothing but the hum of the air recyclers to fill the silence.

He dialed Jazz again.

No answer.

Hot Rod sighed.

This berth really was too large for one.

***