[CtE] From the Shallows 05

[dracoqueen22]

From the Shallows
Part Five

Jazz had not, in fact, attended the weekly conference call, but that was par for the course. They didn't expect him to. His attendance was rarely required. This time, he knew, was probably different, but Soundwave had kept him in the loop, and ran interference with Springer.

Good old Soundwave.

Jazz had instead climbed to the top of a very familiar building, and perched on a very familiar roof. Well, familiar to him at any rate. It was here, five years ago, he'd first ran into Hot Rod, a proposition was made, and a tentative fling had become a constant relationship with benefits. Though relationship was probably too heavy a term.

They were friends. They fragged. And that was enough. It had to be enough. Emotional entanglements were not Jazz's wheelhouse. He couldn't afford for them to be.

Jazz slipped a vibroknife from subspace. He idly flipped it from hand to hand, balanced it on the tips of his fingers, fiddled with it. Gave half his processor something to focus on, while it churned on a never-ending cascade of 'what ifs' and 'should haves' and the unfairness of the universe.

Hot Rod was to be a Prime. Hot Rod is a Prime. He is Rodimus Prime whether he liked it or not.

Hot Rod was to be Rodimus Prime and nowhere in his life did he have space for someone like Jazz. He needed someone by his side to support him, to guide him, to hold him up. Not a wishy-washy saboteur who couldn't keep his own emotions on lock.

Begrudgingly, Jazz wondered if Springer was right. Of course, if Primus hadn't chosen Hot Rod, they could have kept on the way they were just fine. Now, everything was different. Now, there was a Matrix involved. Now, there would be expectations, and Jazz couldn't fill those expectations.

It would be better, wouldn't it, to make a clean break. To end it now, before they got any deeper, so Hot Rod could be angry and disappointed, maybe even hate Jazz a little. Easier to let go of something you hated, right? Easier to realize you weren't losing a damn thing.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Jazz's spark ached. Hot Rod was a sweetness he never should have let himself taste, but it was too late now. He was head over heels, he wanted to keep Hot Rod, and quite obviously, the universe was telling him he shouldn't.

Funny how it had taken almost losing Hot Rod to realize how much he wanted to keep him forever, only to realize all in the same ventilation, he couldn't keep Hot Rod anyway. Hot Rod was to be Rodimus was to be Prime, and he'd never be Jazz's alone. He'd always belong to Primus, to all of Cybertron. He couldn't have someone like Jazz by his side.

Jazz sighed and took aim at one of the decorative ramparts of the roof. With a snap of his wrist, the vibroknife whistled through the air, landing dead center on an ornate whorl with a loud thud.

Fuck Primus.

"Did you even aim?"

Jazz didn't startle. He never startled. People didn't sneak up on Jazz. It didn't happen. He did, however, tense all over, and reached for a blaster before he recognized the voice.

Jazz scowled as a head popped into view over the side of the roof, followed immediately by a familiar frame which laboriously pulled itself over the side.

"Primus, you climb this often?" Smokescreen asked with an exhausted huff, his sensory panels lying limp behind him, his vents whirring noisily.

"I came up here to be alone," Jazz said.

"Then maybe you shouldn't have been broadcasting your misery." Smokescreen rolled his optics and stood, making a show of dusting himself off. "So. Fascinating news about Hot Rod, huh?"

Jazz side-eyed him. "Smokescreen. I love you. But if you start on this pitslag, I will toss ya from this roof."

Smokescreen chuckled and dropped down to sit beside him. "Empty threats, I know." He tilted his head and gave Jazz that look he hated so much. The one which peeled apart the layers to find the truth beneath. "You should be with Hot Rod, not up here."

Jazz jerked up, stomping across the roof to yank his knife out of the rampart. "He's got Prime, and Ratchet, and Springer. I don't think he needs me loiterin' around, lookin' for a 'face."

"Right. Because it's only about interfacing, and that would be the only reason you'd spend time with him," Smokescreen said, and his tone rankled on Jazz, made him want to turn and make a target of Smokescreen's face.

"You're playin' with fire, mech," Jazz warned.

Smokescreen gave him a lazy grin. "It's my modus operandi." He patted the ground next to him. "Come. Sit. Talk to me. You know I ain't gonna judge." He tilted his head. "Though if you're back on the market again, it benefits me."

Jazz snorted and flipped his vibroknife back into subspace with a flourish. "I never left the market."

"Sure."

"Don't use that tone on me. I'm a free agent!"

Smokescreen arched an orbital ridge. He spread his hands. "Hey, I wasn't arguing otherwise." He smiled, but it reeked of judgment and disbelief.

Jazz side-eyed him. "Yer judgin' me. I can hear it." He flopped down next to Smokescreen, though out of reach and further from the probing read of Smokescreen's field. "What you come up here for except to taunt me?"

"I came to stop you from doing something stupid," Smokescreen said. He curled his legs into lotus, propping one elbow on his knees and his chin on his palm. "I know that look. You're about to rabbit."

"From what?" Jazz demanded, the undersides of his armor itching. He hated when Smokescreen was right, which was nearly always.

Smokescreen lifted an orbital ridge. "You need me to spell it out for you to show you I know? I don't think you want to hear what I'm going to say."

"Frag you," Jazz hissed and flicked his vibroknife from one hand to the other with an ease so practiced, it barely distracted him anymore.

"Look," Smokescreen said with a sigh. "I was there. I'm one of the few mechs who can say that. I was there from the beginning. I know what you're thinking. You were wrong then, and you're wrong now. You can have it. You just gotta ask for it."

"That's where you're wrong." Jazz jerked to his feet, his engine revving, an urgency crawling under his armor, like there was battle on the horizon. He could taste it in the air.

"Am I." Smokescreen's tone was perfectly calm, as if he hadn't just tapped into Jazz's fight-or-flight instincts. He stood, dusting himself of imaginary grit. "How about you let Hot Rod decide that? Since you never gave Optimus the opportunity."

Jazz stumbled backward, the words feeling like a physical blow, Smokescreen's tone mild but his words a knife to the spark.

He bared his denta. "That's a low blow."

"But it's the truth." Smokescreen moved closer, and though he wasn't physically aggressive, his words hit like an attack. "When it comes to your spark, you're afraid, so rather than let anyone choose, you decide for them, that way you stay safe. You can hurt yourself, but no one can hurt you."

“Shut your mouth.” Jazz shoved a finger at Smokescreen’s chassis. “I don’t play with that psychological pitslag. Go pretend to be a therapist with someone else.”

Smokescreen arched an orbital ridge. “I don’t need a degree to know you’re a mass of issues wrapped around a vibroknife, Jazz. And a cowardly one at that.” He narrowed his optics, and dared take one step into range. “You lost Optimus, and now you’re throwing Hot Rod away, too. But at least you’ll be safe, right?”

Jazz struck.

He knew Smokescreen was goading him, and he did it anyway. He took no satisfaction in the way Smokescreen stumbled back, clutching his jaw, pain a brief spike in his field, optics flickering.

Jazz wasn't a brawler. But he'd made his point.

"Get your psychiatric aft out of my business," Jazz hissed, and stormed past Smokescreen, leaping over the side of the roof and skidding down the ladder with anger and guilt both brewing in his spark.

He knew what he was doing. He didn't need Smokescreen to peel open wounds, and pry him apart.

This was the best for everyone.

Jazz had to go away.

~

It was a quiet night.

Then again, most nights in Visages were quiet. Unlike Swerve's and Blurr's more rowdier bars, Visages was a classy place. For intimate conversation. For contemplation.

Mirage liked quiet.

Then the door opened and Smokescreen strode inside, and Mirage had a feeling it would be quiet no longer. His few patrons looked up to acknowledge the newcomer before going back to their drinks and soft conversation.

Smokescreen made a beeline for the bar, and Mirage by proxy. He had a lazy grin and a downward cant to his sensory panels, but it was the shadow of bruised derma and the slight dent on his chin which told a story.

"My usual, if you please," Smokescreen said as he hopped up onto the barstool and patted his hands on the counter.

Mirage tilted his head and cupped a knuckle under Smokescreen's chin. "What happened here?" he asked, stroking a thumb along the bruise.

Smokescreen's grin turned sly. "You heard about Hot Rod, right?"

Mirage had indeed. He dropped his hand and started mixing Smokescreen's favorite cocktail as he pondered Smokescreen's implication. Hot Rod was to be Rodimus Prime. This was destined to cause a fall out with the Cybertronian politics. But on a more personal level...

"Ah," Mirage said, and slid the cocktail across the bar toward Smokescreen. "That's what you get for poking a hornet's nest."

Smokescreen's shoulders hunched. "I'm just tired of watching him throw his spark into the slag because he's a coward," he muttered.

Mirage arched a brow. "And how are you braver?"

Smokescreen flinched. "You cut to the spark of things as always, dearling." He idly stirred the lance-shaped stick Mirage had stuck in his drink. "Can't I get a bit of sympathy?"

"I have some ice in the freezer."

Smokescreen barked a laugh, loud enough it cracked the quiet of Visages and made a few patrons cringe. "I was thinking of something more tender, but fine, fine. It'll heal eventually."

"Did you at least do some good to earn that bruise?" Mirage started gathering a few discarded dishes, while keeping his attention on their conversation.

"Nope. He rabbited."

"So you made it worse."

Smokescreen took a long, noisy slurp of his cocktail. "Probably."

Mirage sighed. Smokescreen should have known better than to tackle that bundle of vibroknife-wielding issues. Jazz had been running from his spark for far too long for a little conversation to do him much good. He needed actions more than words.

No, Jazz was a problem only Hot Rod could solve. Mirage made a mental note to speak to the new Prime.

"How's Cliffjumper?"

"Doing fine," Mirage answered as he loaded the dishwasher in preparation for closing. "I don't see him much these days. He helps Glyph more often than not."

Smokescreen nodded as he sipped. "Good, good. At least someone's moving on." He gave Mirage a side-eye, keen look, and there was an opening Mirage did not intend to take.

Smokescreen was a mech endlessly searching for someone else's problem to solve, if only to avoid his own. It was as if he thought he could find happiness by helping others achieve theirs.

'Physician, heal thyself,' Mirage thought with a sigh.

"Time continues to move forward. It's inevitable. We can either move with it, or let it flow around us," Mirage said and tapped the counter in front of Smokescreen. "You want another?"

Smokescreen dragged his finger around the rim of the glass. "You gonna let me crash on your couch?"

"You know you're always welcome."

"Then yeah, give me another."

Mirage obliged, mixing him a second cocktail and pushing it across the counter. He knew, by the end of the night, Smokescreen would be completely sloshed, and Mirage would have to halfway carry Smokescreen up to his quarters, dumping him on the couch to get some sleep.

It was only fair.

Smokescreen had looked after Mirage when he was at his weakest. He would do the same for Smokescreen as well.

That's what friends were for.

~

The meeting adjourned, the windscreen powered down, and Grimlock cycled a ventilation in preparation for the second half of the madness. His head throbbed in anticipation of the arguments to come.

"Well," Starscream said with an unsurprising smirk, "that happened. Trust the Autobots to be the ones to upset the status quo."

"To be fair, I don't think any of them expected this," Deathsaurus replied with a little laugh. His wings visibly flicked. "We all thought Primus, and Cybertron by extension, was dead."

"Primus cannot die," Cyclonus said, though his optics were narrowed in thought, one hand rapping softly on the table. "I am, however, disappointed. Could he not have chosen someone other than an Autobot?"

"I don't think Primus cares about factions," Oilslick drawled, splaying redolent across his chair. Everything Oilslick did was lazy, save for his scientific efforts. Grimlock would not have accepted him into the council if he wasn't worth the time.

Grimlock sighed and pressed his temples. "The issue is that there is now a Prime with a Matrix which means there's a fair chance a faction of Cybertronians are going to start demanding a unified Cybertron under said Prime."

"You fear a return to war," Cyclonus summarized.

Deathsaurus' engine rumbled in a growl. "If we don't leap to comply, they may force the issue. The Neutrals still outnumber us, and many Autobots and some Decepticons would flock to a true Prime."

"Absolutely not," Starscream said with a shake of his head. "I don't care what mystical dreams or artifacts the Autobots have. We'll unite, but not under a Prime. I refuse to live on a planet where I don't have a voice."

Grimlock squeezed Starscream's thigh under the table. "We will not allow that. I can assure you."

"We will work with a Prime, but we won't serve under one," Cyclonus agreed with a solemn nod. "Fortunately, the Autobots can be reasoned with. We will simply have to ensure we speak up and make our intentions known."

"I'm more interested in the fact this means the Primal Spark is awake," Oilslick said. He steepled his fingers together, looking over the tips of them. "That means Cybertron lives once more. It is good news."

"So's the gestational code, to be fair." Knock Out wrinkled his nose. "For whoever wants to reproduce like an organic." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "Not that I'm one of them."

Deathsaurus folded his arms on the edge of the table, his wings twitching over his shoulders. "Repopulating the planet has been a complaint since we all came back. Pretty sure there's gonna be plenty of mechs eager to give this a try."

"Mated pairs and the like," Flatline echoed, but his engine offered a dull rumble. "Will we be offering the code freely or do we intend to be more... circumspect?"

Grimlock did not approve of the direction this conversation was taking. "You mean to control who we allow to reproduce?"

A low rumble of discontent rippled through the conference room while Flatline shook his head. “No such thing! I only meant, perhaps, we should consider that not everyone is suitable to caring for a sparkling. And to allow mechs to engage in this process without clear knowledge would be irresponsible of us.”

Starscream snorted and rolled his optics. “Look, Flatline, I get what you’re saying, I do. But as soon as the code hits the population, we can’t control it. Mechs can share with whomever they want. It’s out of our hands at that point.”

“And you’re treading on dangerous, Senate-like ground to even suggest we should limit who can have the code in the first place,” Deathsaurus said, giving Flatline a sideways glance that Grimlock suspected he’d have to quell sooner rather than later.

Deathsaurus, in particular, took offense to any idea of restrictions. Grimlock could sympathize. Mechs who had beast forms like himself and Deathsaurus, they were often seen as lesser, even more than those who had utility modes like the datacards and the equipment.

Under the old regime, someone like Grimlock or Deathsaurus would not have been allowed to raise or mentor a spark.

“Worrying about the safety of these… young sparks is a legitimate concern,” Oilslick said with a bit of a hum to his vocalizer. “There are some disgusting creatures out in the world, hiding behind an armor of innocence.”

Grimlock, also, had to concede Oilslick’s point. He’d spent time on Earth. He knew that predators existed. He’d seen them among the humans, and while Cybertronians didn’t have children per se, he could see where a predator might find a Cybertronian child as something easy to manipulate, coerce, or use.

Unfortunately, it was also impossible to know who were the threats. Grimlock could make a fair guess -- every one he still had in prison with no intention of freeing, for example. But there were many mechs of all factions running free. It was impossible to screen for something of this nature.

“There will be oversight. It’s a simple process,” Cyclonus said and rapped his fingers on the table. “In theory.” He tipped his head toward Flatline and Knock Out. “Perhaps the medics can put their heads together and come up with a way to monitor the sparklings for proper care.”

The humans had something like that. Social services, they called it. Grimlock thought the whole of Cybertron could benefit from a group whose sole purpose was to keep an optic on the population and ensure everyone was getting the care they needed.

It had been a long war, after all.

“Regardless, delaying the release of the code until we can offer a guide as to how to properly implement it is the least I think we should do,” Flatline said. “Otherwise my medbay will be filled with mechs who have no clue what they’re doing, and I’ll have no clue how to fix it either.”

Grimlock nodded. “I am not opposed to waiting until we have more information.” He glanced across the room. “Does anyone disagree?”

No one spoke up.

Good.

“Well, that’s settled,” Starscream said with a smirk. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, cables tensing and loosening with audible creaks. “We’re not going to bow to a Prime, and we’re going to look after our people. I really don’t see what’s left to discuss.”

Grimlock swallowed a laugh. Starscream’s irreverence for the more tedious portions of leadership never ceased to amuse him.

The meeting dissolved shortly thereafter, with Knock Out looking particularly contemplative, and Flatline and Oilslick bending their heads together, already in conversation over the potential oversight committee. Grimlock was sure there was going to be more discussion as they received more information, but for now, his leadership was mollified, and that would have to do.

Grimlock waited until they were all gone to swivel his chair toward Starscream, and grab the arms of Starscream’s chair to swivel his Seeker toward him. Starscream’s optics widened before he steered his surprise toward something warm and welcoming.

“Planning on defiling our conference room again, my lord?” Starscream purred, in that tone he knew Grimlock loved, because it sent a shiver right down his spinal strut, as did the honorific, even if it was given in jest.

Grimlock took Starscream’s hands, rubbing his thumbs over the back of them. He heard Starscream’s hitched ventilation. He modulated his field, rushing it warm and tender over Starscream’s.

“What do you think?” Grimlock asked as he tugged Starscream a bit closer, until their fields come into shivering contact, and they couldn’t lie to each other. Well, at least not without putting significant effort into it.

Starscream cocked his head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About children,” Grimlock clarified, and when Starscream cycled his optics and his hands jerked a little in Grimlock’s grasp, he added, “You and me trying this new process and creating children, to be even more specific.”

Starscream’s mouth opened, then closed again. His fingers curled around Grimlock’s, tightening. His field said nothing, however, but Grimlock could almost hear the cogs churning in Starscream’s processor.

“I have no issue being the one who carries the bitlet,” Grimlock said, on the chance that was what worried Starscream the most.

Starscream shook his head. “That’s not the issue.” He smiled, and it was Grimlock’s favorite smile, the soft and gentle one he only showed in private, to no one else but Grimlock. It was when Starscream, the real Starscream shone through. “You know, on old Cybertron, I would’ve never been trusted with a young spark.”

“Well, neither would I.”

Starscream chuckled, dark and raspy. His gaze slid to the side. “Under Megatron, this wouldn’t have happened. If we’d let him have his way, Primus would’ve never forgiven us.”

“Probably.”

Grimlock stroked his thumb along the back of Starscream’s hands again. “What I’m not hearing is an answer. Do you need time to think about it?”

“No. I already know what I want to do.” Starscream grinned at him. “Sure. Let’s do it. You and me. Let’s pave the way for everyone else. Set an example.” He barked a laugh, and true amusement rippled through his vocals. “Primus, I wish that stuffy old Senate could see it now. They’d keel over from sheer outrage.”

“You did a pretty good job getting rid of them on your own.”

Starscream gave him a sly look. “Indeed I did.” He climbed into Grimlock’s lap, draping Grimlock’s arms over his shoulders. “We could get started if you want. I know it starts with you spiking me.” He rocked his hips pointedly.

“And spark-sharing,” Grimlock reminded him, dragging one hand down Starscream’s central seam.

“I bonded with you. I think I can handle a little spark-sharing,” Starscream said dryly. He pressed his forehead to Grimlock’s, wings twitching in a mad rhythm behind him. “At the very least, it’s going to be fun to practice.”

Grimlock chuckled. “Yes, it will.”

~

"Do you think we'll need a radiometer?"

"I vote yes to anything you think we'll need. I'd rather have and not need it, then need it and not have it."

"You make a very valid point. Brainstorm, have you arranged transportation yet?"

"I'm still on hold."

"Did you give them my designation?"

"I gave them mine."

Perceptor rolled his optics and kept packing, far more orderly than Wheeljack's haphazard toss of equipment into a crate. Wheeljack might be fine with digging through a mass of unorganized tools, but Perceptor was not.

"I'm getting a ping," Wheeljack said as he scuttled closer, reaching over Perceptor to pull down the bin of transducers. "Wanna guess who it's from?"

Perceptor frowned. "Shockwave?" When Wheeljack nodded, Perceptor barely concealed his scowl. "Word certainly travels fast. I assume he wants to come with us?"

"You assume correctly."

"Ignore him."

Wheeljack winced. "He gets relentless when I do. I'm just gonna refuse. He can stay in his lab, and we'll send him pertinent data if we feel like it."

"If at all." Perceptor carefully folded a tripod for a time-lapse camera into a crate, notching it between several sturdy bracing poles. "Shockwave may be brilliant, but I am not keen on giving him access to data which may encourage him to continue his unethical pursuits."

"I got through," Brainstorm said as he sidled up to join them, quickly taking in their packed crates. "One of the old shuttles is still in good shape. We could use it." He tapped his mouthguard. "You know if you just let me use my--"

"No," Perceptor said.

"--shrinkray, this would make packing a whole lot easier," Brainstorm continued, undeterred.

Wheeljack chuckled and patted Brainstorm on the shoulder, probably to take the sting out of Perceptor's rejection. "Don't take it personally. You know how Percy is about his toys."

"I never take it personal. Not anymore." Brainstorm fluttered a wink at Perceptor, who studiously ignored it.

Sometimes, he regretted allowing Brainstorm into his berth. The garrulous scientist, while brilliant in his own right, could be rather obnoxious, and if Perceptor wasn't so damn fond of Brainstorm, he'd have walked away months ago.

But it was, Perceptor had learned long ago, impossible to hate Brainstorm, and stupidly easy to love him.

Love, by the way Perceptor had reasoned, made one stupid. Himself included.

"Help us finish packing. I'd like to be at the site within the hour," Perceptor said, ignoring their shared tittering and glances, because they amused themselves at Perceptor's expense often. Luckily, he was used to it and no longer took offense.

"I'm done packing." Brainstorm patted the ridiculous looking sack he'd strapped around his waist, which didn't look large enough to hold any of the equipment he'd need.

Given that he'd slung his shrink ray over the opposite shoulder, there was Perceptor's answer. Primus, if those things suddenly enlarged while they're on the ship, Perceptor would ban Brainstorm from his berth for a month.

Perceptor lifted a crate and put it in Brainstorm's arms. "Then help us load the transport."

"You know I love it when you get bossy with me," Brainstorm said from behind the crate. "Point me in the right direction, Percy."

He spun Brainstorm around and gave him a mild push in the direction of the door. He watched Brainstorm totter out, only bouncing off one table with his hip before he vanished out the door.

"That's too much information, guys," Wheeljack said in Brainstorm's absence.

Despite himself, Perceptor chuckled. "Having spent decades listening to you wax poetically on the virtues of Ratchet and your love for him, I think you can endure a few minutes of Brainstorm being overly flirtatious."

"True." Wheeljack nudged a little closer, and his field gave Perceptor's a little poke. "But you're happy with him? Really?"

Perceptor titled his head at Wheeljack's unusually serious tone. "Yes," he admitted, after a moment. "Brainstorm challenges me, both in the laboratory and in conversation. He pulls me out of my shell. He..."

Heat flooded Perceptor's face. He coughed to clear his intake and busied his hands. "He's good for me, and I'd like to think I'm good for him."

"You are. And I'm glad you're happy. Both me and Ratch, we were worried about ya for a bit." Wheeljack patted him on the shoulder. "He'll be happy to know you're okay."

"Ratchet worries too much," Perceptor sighed, but it was a fond sigh. Worry was Ratchet's nature.

"Well, I'm not going to argue that." Wheeljack pulled away, crouching to dig into one of his cabinets, as unorganized as everything else he kept. "What do you think about this reproduction business anyway?"

Perceptor hummed thoughtfully. "I'm not interested. I already have a child," he said as the door opened to admit Brainstorm, dusting off his hands. "And there he is now."

Wheeljack laughed.

Brainstorm cocked his head. "Why do I get the feeling I'm the end result of the very rare Perceptor joke?"

"Because you are." Perceptor chuckled and added a few more carefully labeled packages to his crate. "But in all seriousness, I do not anticipate wanting to experience this particular change anytime soon. I don't want that sort of burden at the moment."

Brainstorm nodded. "Oh, we're talking about the carrying process." He made a round shape in front of his belly to emphasize, though Hot Rod's description had not included any sort of outward, physical change. "We're in agreement on that. I'm not ready for a baby either."

"Perhaps in the future." Perceptor eyed Wheeljack, who was dumping a whole container into his packing crate, the bits and bobs clattering noisily inside. "What about you and Ratchet?"

Wheeljack's kibble gave a little fluttering dance. "He's already thinking of names. Methinks the old medic is going through an empty nest since Flare moved out."

"It's hard to believe Ratchet is such a nanny figure." Brainstorm poked around as if checking for anything else he might want to bring. "He's always yelling."

"At you," Perceptor corrected. "Because like Wheeljack, you seem to think scientific safety protocols are a suggestion rather than an important precautionary measure."

Brainstorm planted his hands on his hips. "Now why did you have to go and call me out like that? Honestly, Perce. I'm offended."

Wheeljack rolled his optics and snapped the lid on his crate shut. "Okay, you two, if we're going to get out there before the sun sets, we need to get going. I want some readings asap."

"Now who's the serious one?" Perceptor teased, but he did hastily stack the last of his instruments into his own crate before locking it shut. "You're right. I am eager to see what we can learn, if perhaps we can find this Primal Spark."

"I'm still getting readings from what they left out there." Brainstorm whipped out a datapad and started perusing the contents. He fell in line beside Perceptor as he hefted a crate and Wheeljack did the same. "There are lots of weird energy spikes, and the seisometer is picking up a lot of movement in the core."

"Cybertron's awakening," Wheeljack said.

"That would be my guess. It would explain the movement and the energy expenditure," Perceptor mused aloud, his processor churning on possibilities. "We'll know more when we can take readings for ourselves."

It was a new age of discovery, of both old and new things.

Perceptor couldn't wait.

~

It was always a challenge to find Glyph.

He was a minibot even smaller than Cliffjumper, and he had a tendency to hide amongst the stacks and crates of salvaged Cybertronian history. To be fair, the hiding wasn't intentional, but the stacks were larger than Glyph, and when he found some new tidbit to explore, he'd get so engrossed in the material he wouldn't pay attention to his surroundings.

Sometimes, Cliffjumper could lure him out with goodies, if he had any with an enticing enough aroma.

He had no goodies today. He hadn't had time. Between the packing and the loading and triple-checking the list Glyph had given him, he'd been busy.

"Glyph?"

Cliffjumper wandered the stacks, passing haphazardly stacked crates and cartons, leaning piles of physical scrolls and ancient datapads, some so thick and unwieldy, they seemed useless. The whole recovery room smelled of dust and disuse and spent artillery, combined with the pungent odor of the cleaning solution Cliffjumper mixed himself, to ensure the artifacts were clean without losing their integrity.

The stacks were loosely organized in clumps relative to the cities or locations where they'd been recovered. Iacon over here. Uraya over there. A much smaller pile from the ruins of Praxus...

"Glyph?"

"Back here! In Nova Cronum!"

He should have known. Nova Cronum was one of Glyph's favorites.

Cliffjumper oriented toward Glyph's voice, and was unsurprised to find the archaelogist sitting on the floor, surrounded by ancient datapads, bits of physical data, and a single laptop, of which he was typing on furiously.

"I found a reference to sparkling in one of these ancient texts," Glyph was saying as Cliffjumper approached, like he was carrying on a conversation Cliffjumper didn't know he'd started. Glyph did this a lot. "I'm even more certain that Nova Cronum will contain the information we need. It was a good guess, since Nova Cronum had been the head of medical research, but still--"

"Glyph," Cliffjumper cut in gently, fighting off a grin. Glyph almost rivaled Bluestreak for chattiness. "The transport's ready to go."

"Already?" Glyph's fingers paused. He glanced up, blinking owlishly. "Goodness, is it really that late? Have I been sitting here that long?" He looked at his computer and tapped a few keys, saving his work. "Help me up, and I'll give you a hand."

Cliffjumper chuckled and pulled Glyph to his feet, careful not to disturb the stacks of datapads.
"I'm done. Just waiting on you."

"What? Really?" Glyph's face colored as he tucked his computer away. "I'm so sorry. You should have gotten me sooner. I would've helped."

"It's fine." Cliffjumper waved it off, scrubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "Tell me more about what you found. You really think the information about this sparking bit is out there?"

Glyph nodded with enthusiasm and started to lead Cliffjumper through the stacks, toward the exit. "Undoubtedly. If Rodimus Prime is correct, and this is a method we have successfully used in the past, then there must be data about it somewhere." He shook a finger in the air. "You can't destroy the truth, Cliffjumper. Remember that. It's always there. Somewhere." He paused and tipped his chin. "The trick is to find it." He winked.

"That's what you're for, to find it," Cliffjumper said.

Glyph laughed and it echoed in the narrow corridors, so light and carefree, it lightened Cliffjumper's spark as well. "You also! Don't lessen your own contributions to this. I wouldn't have recovered so much if not for you."

Cliffjumper's face heated. "I'm just the muscle; you're the brains."

"But they can't work, one without the other." Glyph tapped his head. "That's the secret."

"If you say so," Cliffjumper said, but his insides bubbled with happiness, as much as he tried to hide it behind his scowl. It was impossible to maintain any kind of grump around Glyph. He was the definition of sunshine.

"I do, in fact, say so," Glyph said with a puffed up chassis. "I mean, you have to be more optimistic. Look at how much better things already are! The factions are gradually dissolving, more of our people are coming home, now there's a new Prime in the works, and Optimus Prime himself has entrusted us with a very important task."

Cliffjumper nodded. "It is good to be trusted again."

"Our designations are going to go down in history!" Glyph declared with a wide flourish, jabbering on without flourish. "Mark my words, Cliffie, we're going to glean every tidbit of information we can, and we're going to find out how this old sparking process works, and we're going to be absolutely vital in the efforts to repopulate Cybertron!"

It was hard to stay pessimistic around Glyph. Nothing disappointed him.

"Consider them marked," Cliffjumper said as they left the archives, and Glyph carefully locked the doors behind them. He was over-protective of their finds.

Glyph chuckled and patted Cliffjumper on the elbow. "Thank you for indulging an old rustbucket like me. I really do appreciate your help."

"There's not a spot of rust on you," Cliffjumper pointed out, gesturing to Glyph's immaculate pale blue finish with a silver trim, completely lacking in all kibble. Glyph had no alt-mode.

“And I appreciate you noticing.” Glyph winked and nudged Cliffjumper toward the exit, and the transport idling in wait for them.

Cliffjumper shook his head and slid into the driver’s seat while Glyph hopped up into the passenger side, though he’d yet to learn how to pilot one of these things. Eventually, Cliffjumper would teach him, when they weren’t busy with the ten thousand things Glyph wanted to research anyway.

“Ready to find out about baby Cybertronians?” Cliffjumper asked as he flipped switches and toggled the ship from standby to active.

Glyph pulled out a datapad and started to scribble. “Born ready!”

Cliffjumper chuckled.

~

Swoop and Skywarp hadn’t stopped chattering since Starscream shared the news.

Thundercracker left them to their excitement while he wandered their shared apartment, cleaning the general mess three mechs tended to accumulate, especially when one of them wasn’t keen on tidying and the second often had messy brothers visit.

Thundercracker complained about the mess, but he truthfully didn’t mind it so much. Cleaning gave him time to think, which Skywarp accused him of doing far too much of, but honestly. Someone in their little trio had to do the thinking. He couldn’t rely on his more reckless partners to do it.

He’d already given them the lecture.

While Cybertronians hadn’t raised young in so long they’d forgotten they were capable of it, they had spent enough time on Earth to have absorbed the culture. Thundercracker was reasonably familiar with the trials and tribulations of caring for a child, from birth until maturation. He’d seen enough movies and read enough books.

Perhaps they should get a pet first.

“He’s definitely going to be able to fly,” Skywarp said.

“Him be smart, too,” Swoop agreed.

“I hope he looks like Thundercracker.” Skywarp made a soft sigh and then added, “You’re adorable, too, Swoop, but don’t you think Thundercracker is the hottest one of all three of us?”

“Me Swoop agree.”

Thundercracker sighed and leaned into view of his two babbling partners. “You do realize how much work it’s going to be to care for an infant, yes?”

They rolled their optics at him in unison. “Duh,” Skywarp said while Swoop added, “Not stupid,” and stuck his glossa out at Thundercracker.

He wished Starscream hadn’t swung by to share the news, and had waited until they’d made the more public announcement. Thundercracker could have used more information with which to tame the eager impulses of his more reckless thirds.

It wasn’t that Thundercracker wasn’t intrigued by the idea of raising their own children, because he was. He simply wanted his partners to realize what they were signing up for, and how much responsibility it would entail. He didn’t want their excitement to overwhelm their reason.

He didn’t want them all to fly blind, as they were wont to do.

“Do you not want us to do this?” Skywarp asked after a moment, and it took until then for Thundercracker to realize they weren’t excitedly chattering anymore, but watching him from the couch.

Thundercracker dropped the dirtied polishing cloths he’d collected into the laundry bin and joined them in the main room, choosing to sit on the table in front of them, rather than join them on the couch.

“I can’t think of a single thing I’d enjoy more than raising a sparkling with you,” Thundercracker said, the unfamiliar term feeling odd on his lips and shaping weirdly across his glossa. He supposed he would get used to it.

“Thundercracker scared?” Swoop asked.

“Cautious,” Thundercracker corrected, and offered them both a crooked smile. “It’s my nature. I have to be the cautious one, because if not for you two, we’d all be flying into madness every week.”

“And twice on Tuesdays,” Skywarp murmured with a snort and a grin. It was a familiar mantra for the three of them. “Is that your only objection?”

Thundercracker’s wings twitched before he could still them, and Swoop was too perceptive not to notice.

“What else?” Swoop asked.

Thundercracker dragged a hand down his face. He braced his elbows on his knees, contemplating how best to word this. “I’m willing to help raise a sparkling, but I don’t want to-- I’m not interested in-- I don’t think I can--”

He broke off three times before he lapsed into silence. It felt like a failure, to admit the things he couldn’t do, and a betrayal as well. He should be willing to put in the same amount of effort as his partners. He was damn lucky they accepted him the way he was, for the things he didn’t ask of them, but still. Times like these…

“It okay,” Swoop said, and he folded his hand over Thundercracker’s -- his much larger hand -- and tugged it until Thundercracker had no choice but to give it up. “Me get it.”

“I’m glad you do. Because I don’t.” Skywarp huffed, but it sounded fond rather than angrily annoyed. “He’s terrible at explaining himself. Always has been. Do you even know how long it took me to figure out he was turning me down because he thought he was broken? Che.”

“Thundercracker does not want to carry,” Swoop said, but he said it slowly, carefully, picking through the words in his ever growing dictionary. Sometimes, he didn’t bother to use what most mechs would call proper speech.

But when he didn’t want to be mistaken, when he wanted to make a point, he slowed himself down, he chose his words with care. He bared himself to the few he trusted.

Thundercracker’s spark warmed at the implication.

Especially since Swoop was right.

“Really? Is that all?” Skywarp threw himself out of the couch and against Thundercracker’s side, tossing his arms over Thundercracker, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “You’re so silly, TC. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m happy to step in and take one for the team.”

“Me Swoop carry, too,” Swoop said and rose from the couch, too, wriggling in against Thundercracker’s side.

The table gave an alarming, ominous groan beneath them.

“See? It’s just that simple!” Skywarp said, peppering the side of Thundercracker’s face in kisses because he couldn’t resist an opportunity when it was presented to him.

Thundercracker groaned and tried to avoid the energetic affection but it was to no avail. Especially when Swoop started in on the other side, laughing in tandem with Skywarp, leaving him trapped between their love.

The destruction of the table was honestly the icing on the oilcake.

***