[CTE] From the Shallows 07

[dracoqueen22]

From the Shallows
Part Seven

Ratchet was the last to arrive, which was both intentional and by accident. He meant to be on time, but was waylaid by concerned Autobots on the way to the meeting, and he hadn’t wanted to attend the meeting much in the first place, save that he had a duty, and Ratchet wasn’t one to shirk his duties.

Still.

He was the last to arrive, huffing through the doorway nearly ten minutes after the meeting was supposed to begin, and while he would have liked to sneak in and take a quiet seat somewhere no one would notice him, there weren’t enough mechs for him to pull off the subterfuge.

Glyph and First Aid both looked up as he entered, the former with a friendly smile, the latter with a disapproving frown.

"Don't say a word," Ratchet warned before either could speak. He dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh, and it creaked and groaned beneath him. "Let's just get this started."

"Your enthusiasm is appreciated," First Aid said in a dry tone full of censure, and damn, he sure was spry lately. Ratchet was glad to see him bouncing back, though he never lost the shadow of grief around him.

Ambulon's presence had benefited First Aid greatly.

Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. "Why do I need to be enthusiastic?"

Glyph coughed politely into his hand. "We, unfortunately, were unable to unearth a complete guide to this process, but what we were able to find is quite fascinating! Mostly personal anecdotes, but I hope you'll find it useful."

Glyph beamed at them, full of patience and kindness, and no wonder he and Cliffjumper got on so well. Agitation seemed to roll off Glyph's back like it couldn't touch him.

"Thank you, Glyph," First Aid said in a pointed tone with an even more pointed look at Ratchet. "I'm sure it'll be helpful."

Ratchet took out a datapad and set it on the table. He twirled a stylus in his fingers. "I'm ready to learn. There are one too many dumbafts around for this to be anything but a disaster."

Glyph chuckled. "Knowledge is the best defense."

"Agreed." First Aid sat up straight, his stylus hovering over his datapad, like the perfect student.

Glyph flicked on a vidscreen. By Primus, he'd prepared a slide show. Ratchet groaned internally as the lights dimmed and Glyph picked up a clicker.

"Based on what the new Prime told us, we started by researching associated keywords in the oldest bits of recovered lore," Glyph said as he clicked to a picture of the dilapidated ruins of the Iacon and Protihex archives. "What was most astonishing is the amount of information we didn't find. Linked threads which led to deleted files, huge sections of data which had been purposefully removed, other bits of information hidden behind extensive firewalling. Someone worked very hard to conceal this."

"Someone?" First Aid echoed. "Could you tell who?"

Glyph sighed and clicked to another screen, displaying a map of dark information paths and destroyed hard drives. "There were Senate-level signatures on many of the approved deletion queries, though some of the physical destruction suggests it was done by the Quintessons."

"So you weren't able to find anything official?" Ratchet asked.

"A few reports from medics, buried in patient files who had gone to facilities for issues other than their pregnancy -- and I am using pregnancy as a short-form term. We may decide something suits better," Glyph said.

"Can we have copies of those?" First Aid asked around his ferocious scribbling.

Glyph beamed. "Of course! A lot of it is written in medical shorthand and jargon. Cliffjumper and I couldn't parse it, but perhaps a medic will have a better understanding."

First Aid nodded.

Ratchet checked his chronometer. Only five minutes had passed. He hadn't been fond of school back when he attended the academy. He wasn't particularly fond of it now.

Couldn't they just write up a brief report and let Ratchet read that? He was the CMO! He didn't have time to sit here and take a lesson in old-school reproduction.

Glyph clicked to another image, this time a diagram and schematic, and ah, yes. This was a lot more helpful. Ratchet sat up straighter and peered at the screen.

Glyph's pointer highlighted an area. "You should recognize this as a part most medics do not understand the importance of right now," he said, gesturing to a vaguely oval shape in the standard mech's midsection. "It was largely considered vestigial, often surgically extracted in certain cases, though nanites would replace it given enough time."

"We learned to just leave it alone," Ratchet said. "It wasn't doing any harm, and removing it was pointless."

First Aid tilted his head. "You know, given what Rodimus said about the process, I'm not surprised nanites rebuilt it. The whole thing emerges at, err, birth. Doesn't it?"

Glyph nodded and gave First Aid a bright grin. "Precisely! Very astute of you, First Aid."

"That makes sense. If it's a resource-heavy process, expelling the entire gestational chamber would force a frame to spend time recovering before hosting another... child," Ratchet said, though the last word felt odd in his mouth.

Organics had children. Humans had children. Cybertronians did not.

They did, however, know from experience that it took time to regrow the organ. Ratchet had little doubt that if the chamber had been birthed rather than surgically removed, it might take even longer, because the coding would inform the nanites of the birth.

"Indeed. All of the anecdotal reports we found seem to confirm that." Glyph clicked to another image which had three different case study numbers on it. "These, however, were mechs who presented either without the gestational tank or were unable to carry more than one child. There were deficiencies in their coding."

"Transplants?" First Aid asked.

Glyph shook his head. "I'm not a medic. There were none reported as successful. I was only able to find a reference to two attempts -- both rejected."

Which didn't mean it was impossible. There could have been other, successful attempts, but Glyph was unable to find those records. Honestly, Ratchet was impressed by the amount of data Glyph had been able to recover, given the war, and the Senate's attempts to conceal the whole process.

Ratchet made a mental note to include gestational chamber checks in all future yearly maintenances.

"What about control methods?" First Aid asked. "How can we prevent accidental pregnancies or unwanted pregnancies?"

"I wasn't able to find any particular mention of control methods, but the good news is that this process requires several specific steps. It's unlikely to happen by accident," Glyph said, and he clicked to another slide.

Unlikely, but not impossible, Ratchet thought sourly. Given enough high grade, anything could happen.

"What exactly is the process?" Ratchet asked as he made another mental note, this time to start researching his own methods of a control process. If he could prevent any accidents, he was all for it. "I think we can worry about control and all that, once we actually know how it happens, since Rodimus' story was less than clear."

"Again, I could only find anecdotal evidence, but even so, I was able to piece together a fairly clear idea of the process." Glyph gestured to the screen, where a diagram now took center stage, probably created by hand as it was too clear and precise to have been scavenged from an archive.

"First is the coding," Glyph gestured to the top of the flow chart. "Unless it's activated, the gestational tank is indeed just a vestigial organ. It serves no purpose."

First Aid nodded and took notes, like the diligent student he was. "Strange that over the centuries, it wasn't gradually written out of our coding."

"We haven't surveyed the surviving population. There might be more mechs without it than we realize," Ratchet pointed out.

Glyph's optics brightened. "What an interesting study! I shall add it to the list." He beamed and pulled out a datapad, scribbling it down, before he pointed to the next stage. "Next is the actual implantation, the sparking process as it was often called. This requires three components: a receptive valve, a functional spike, and a spark merge."

Ahhh. That was the secret.

"So the two mechs have to be sharing spark energies at the time of overload?" First Aid asked.

"Precisely." Glyph clicked to another slide, which was a close up diagram of the gestational chamber and the conduits around it. "The coding activates two things: the shunt which directs spark energy to the tank, and the charger for the nanites in a mech's transfluid. Both are needed to spark the protomass secreted by a functional gestational tank."

Ratchet grumbled, "Multiple opportunities for failure or coding glitches then. Wonderful."

On top of that, a whole new system they'd have to learn how to fix or handle. Multiple opportunities for things to go wrong, and for their patients to come to them for answers.

It was a nightmare.

"A bond isn't necessary?" First Aid asked.

"Not as far as I can tell. Of the multiple sources I found, not all of them were bonded. All that is required is a certain measure of trust among the participants."

"Among," Ratchet echoed, and he narrowed his optics. That was some precise phrasing. "Are you suggesting it's possible to have more than two mechs involved?"

For the first time, Glyph's calm poise faltered a little. He shifted as his face visibly heated. "I found, um, two very personal anecdotes which seemed to indicate multiple partners were involved in the implantation, and the resulting sparkling's molecular coding reflected that."

First Aid made a strangled noise.

Ratchet wanted to echo him, except on Primus. He wanted to put Primus in front of him and wring the deity's neck because why. Why did they need even more complications?

"Wonderful," Ratchet said.

"For some, probably," First Aid said, giving Ratchet an askance look. "I'm thinking of mechs like Breakdown, Knock Out, and Snarl."

Ratchet's head hurt.

He gestured at Glyph. "As much as I don't want you to, let's get this over with. What other wonderful surprises did you find?"

The rest wasn't any more simple or uncomplicated or ripe with opportunities for failure or complications.

Growth rate varied by frame and spark type. The gestational process seemed to require an uptick in energon consumption, along with the requirement of additional supplements. Luckily, because the tank itself was fitted for an individual's frame, a carrier's frame did not round out like a pregnant organic might. From the outside, it would be nearly impossible to tell if a mech was sparked.

"Though there are exceptions," Glyph was quick to point out with a few archived image captures flashing up on the screen. "For example, this small mech carrying for his shuttle. Or this mech here, who had split-spark twins."

The birthing process was fairly simple. The mech's chassis parted on its own, and ejected the entire gestational chamber, which detached itself from the mech's frame. The tank itself seemed to form the exterior of the sparkling's frame, and would be eventually absorbed into the sparkling itself as the sparkling's nanites gradually reworked the materials into suitable plating.

Over-time, the sparkling's nanites would help it "grow". It consumed a lot of energon to power the nanites, which self-replicated at a massive pace compared to that of a fully-grown adult Cybertronian. Sparklings could learn by uploads or actual instruction.

By the end of it, there was only one thing Ratchet knew for certain.

"We need a volunteer," he said as he tossed down his stylus and rubbed his aching temples. "This research is good and all, but we need real-time experience."

"I'm sure we can find one," First Aid said, a bit of excitement peeking around the edges of his field. "Frankly, we'll be lucky if we can convince anyone to wait. I'm already fielding comms from mechs ready to get their code activated now."

Ratchet sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. "We don't have to look far," he admitted. "Wheeljack has been ready since he first heard about it."

"But you're not?" First Aid asked.

"I am cautious," Ratchet said. He braced his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. "Glyph, I'm grateful for your research and these anecdotes, but this is still a process we are unfamiliar with. Any number of things could go wrong."

Wheeljack insisted on being the one to carry, because he wanted Ratchet's advice during the process. Ratchet would never forgive himself if anything happened to Wheeljack. Yes, he'd love to raise a sparkling, but not at the cost of Wheeljack.

There was nothing in the world Ratchet loved more.

"Luckily, you don't have to figure it out by yourself," First Aid said, and he scooted his chair closer, laying a hand on Ratchet's arm. "I'll be there. Ambulon will be there. I think between the three of us, and anyone else with medical experience, we can figure it out."

"You may be right," Ratchet conceded.

First Aid straightened and brightened, his field taking a mischievous edge. "Besides, from what I hear, if any of us spark first, it'll be Starscream and Grimlock."

"I have been getting a ping from them for the past twenty minutes, wanting copies of what I discovered," Glyph said.

Ratchet chuckled. He was not the least bit surprised. "I guess we'll just have to see who wins the race."

In the meantime, he supposed he'd have another conversation with Wheeljack. There was nothing he wouldn't give Wheeljack if it was within his power, and this was no exception.

~

Ten years, for a Cybertronian, used to be nothing.

Looking at Cliffjumper now, standing in front of him with squared shoulders and a raised chin, and a field emanating confidence and proud, Optimus reflected that ten years made all the difference now. Perhaps they'd spent too long with the humans, their outlook on life adapting to something more ephemeral.

Whatever the reason, Optimus was glad for it, because the Cliffjumper before him today bore little resemblance to the Cliffjumper they rescued from Astrotrain and Blitzwing's quarters.

"I don't have Glyph's talent for presentation," Cliffjumper said as he handed Optimus a datapad. "The medics're getting the whole slideshow. You just get a datapad."

Optimus chuckled. "Given my schedule, I prefer this."

"Me, too," Hot Rod said from his seat nearby, deftly concealing a yawn behind one hand. "I don't wanna go to anything that looks like school."

Optimus tossed the new Prime a fond look. Hot Rod had been very reluctant from the beginning, but he bore the lessons in stride. Or as well as could be expected. He didn’t complain, to give him credit, though Optimus occasionally caught him staring wistfully out the window, his face creased with thought.

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” Cliffjumper said as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Optimus couldn’t convince him to take a more relaxed stance. “There just isn’t much to find. Primes kept their knowledge to themselves, especially about themselves.”

Optimus barely stopped himself from rubbing his chassis, where he used to house the Matrix. He could remember some of the vast swathes of knowledge stored within the device, but as the years went on, the information gradually seeped out of his storage banks, as if it was designed to leave him without a constant refresh.

“What are the key points?” Optimus asked as he powered on the datapad and began to skim it.

He frowned.

Cliffjumper wasn’t wrong. There wasn’t much information to be found. A few general statements of prior Prime ascensions. There were personal anecdotes from those who had served with a Prime. But there was nothing from a Prime themself, as if their comments had been stricken from the record on purpose, or were designed to remain with the Matrix and the Matrix alone.

“We need a Prime to operate the starbridge,” Cliffjumper said and his gaze slid to Hot Rod briefly. “Which is maybe why the Matrix showed up when it did. Maybe digging up the starbridges triggered something.”

“Hm.” Optimus rapped his fingers on the desk. “That’s entirely possible. The Matrix did have a sort of sentience into itself.” Though sentience was perhaps the wrong word. The combined wisdom and memories of all the past Primes, including Prima the first, formed a personality matrix which had a sentience.

“Yeah, but the Matrix didn’t give itself to me,” Hot Rod pointed out as he leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, idly twirling a stylus between his fingers. “Primus did. Or at least, that’s what he called himself. I dunno. I guess the Matrix could’ve taken on an image of Primus or something.”

Cliffjumper shook his head. “Nah. One thing’s pretty obvious. Only Primus picks a Prime, and only Primus can give them the Matrix.” He grinned, and it was bright and cheerful. “Primus is back. He’s awake. Cybertron’s awake, too. It’s gotta be.”

Optimus certainly hoped it was.

“It would be good news if he were,” Optimus said, before his skimming caught a new word. He paused, backtracked, and read the notation again. “What’s this about a guardian?”

“We don’t know,” Cliffjumper said, and his tone was exceedingly apologetic, as if Optimus would blame him or Glyph for their inability to discover concrete answers in archives buried after war and disuse. “It’s the important part, though, other than needing a Prime to activate the starbridges. It’s supposed to guard them, to make sure no one uses them who shouldn’t, but what it is, or if it’s even real, we couldn’t tell.”

“It might just be a myth?” Hot Rod asked.

Cliffjumper shrugged. “Dunno.”

Optimus swallowed a sigh. This would have been the time he’d usually consult the Matrix and the wisdom of the past Primes. His gaze slid to Hot Rod, who was frowning, his brow drawn in deep lines.

“Hot Rod?” he prompted.

There was a moment where Hot Rod’s silence might have spoken volumes, until he slowly shook his head, shoulders sinking down. “I mean, I poked it, but I don’t really know how this thing works.” He thumped his chest pointedly. “Primus didn’t give me a user’s guide or anything. It talks when it wants to.”

“Do you think it’s something we should be concerned about?” Optimus asked, directing the question toward Cliffjumper.

He jumped as if startled to be asked and scratched at his chin. “Uh. I dunno. Maybe? Glyph seemed to think it was legitimate, but it was only mentioned in a couple of old stories.” Cliffjumper offered a sheepish grin. “Sorry, sir. We’re going to keep looking.”

“Have, uh, the people who are digging found anything?” Hot Rod asked, sounding hesitant, as if he was trying on this new role they’d given him, and wasn’t sure he liked the fit. “Any kind of sign of a guardian or something dangerous?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Optimus tilted his head and contemplated.

Unearthing the starbridges was a joint effort with the Decepticons, the Autobots, and the Neutrals. All three factions had loaned their very best engineers and construction workers to this task, and the leadership of all three factions received weekly updates from the crews as to their progress. Optimus wasn’t following it personally, he had far too many things to manage. He’d given that particular task to Perceptor, who he expected would contact him if anything was amiss.

“I’ll let the teams know to be careful and observant,” Optimus said at length, as Cliffjumper twitched where he stood, and Hot Rod started to frown, idly rubbing his chassis. “Maybe this guardian is a myth, maybe it’s a genuine concern. Only time will tell.”

Activating the starbridges was too important to stop now. They were a large source of hope for every Cybertronian. The data was too flimsy and vague to consider putting a kibosh on the entire project.

Optimus doubted highly he could get Grimlock or Xaaron to agree to cease excavations based on a few whispers from the archives.

“And Glyph and I will keep researching,” Cliffjumper said. “Just in case.”

Optimus nodded. “Thank you, Cliffjumper. And please extend my gratitude to Glyph as well. The work you two are doing is invaluable.”

Pride bloomed across Cliffjumper’s face and field like sunrise, and it soothed Optimus’ spark to see it. He’d been so worried about Cliffjumper for so long, and it relieved him to see the minibot having found his way back to solid ground. Recovery was still a long process -- Optimus was familiar with it himself -- but to see Cliffjumper healing was a much needed balm to the guilt Optimus had yet to surrender.

“Thank you, sir,” Cliffjumper said, and he bobbed in place, as if his excitement was too much to contain. “I’ll tell Glyph that, too.” He tossed off a salute, though Optimus had long since told them such things weren’t necessary. “Have a good day.”

Cliffjumper left, and Optimus muffled a chuckle, returning his attention to the report Cliffjumper had given him. The guardian statement wasn’t the only thing which had stood out, but it did seem to be the most relevant.

“You make it look so easy.”

Optimus blinked and looked up at Hot Rod, who was still rubbing his chassis, but now frowning, but less at Optimus than it seemed to be directed to himself. “Which part?” Optimus asked.

Hot Rod tilted his head toward the door. “Cliffjumper. Or, well, I guess, being someone people can respect? Like? I dunno.” He rubbed the back of his head then dropped his hands into his lap, fiddling with his datapad. “You just always seem to know the right thing to say.”

Oh.

Optimus put down the datapad and folded his arms across it. “I’m going to tell you a secret, Hot Rod.”

“Honestly, Prime, I could use all the help. Spill,” Hot Rod said with a crooked smile, his spoiler halves offering a jaunty tilt.

Optimus chuckled. “There’s no real secret save time and experience. I was much older than you when I received the Matrix, and I’ve been Prime for a long time. I didn’t come into my Prime-hood being respected. I had to earn it.”

And sometimes, he still feared he wasn’t worthy of it.

“It is a constant state of earning,” Optimus added, and he couldn’t tell if his words were reassuring to Hot Rod, or putting a larger burden on him. “Surround yourself with mechs you trust, whose advice you will heed. Be willing to admit when you are wrong, but stand up for what you think is right, and the rights of those who can’t stand for themselves. Other than that, there’s no real secret.”

“Just a lot of work,” Hot Rod said.

“Yes.”

Hot Rod sighed, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I got a long road ahead of me then. You’re a hard act to follow, you know.”

“I have complete faith in you, Hot Rod. And you won’t be doing this alone.” This much Optimus had vowed. He might want to retire, but he wouldn’t do so until he was sure Hot Rod was confident in his place.

Hot Rod bent over his datapad, hiding behind it, and Optimus spotted the warmth in his face, and the flush in his field. “Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

~

Starscream was mobbed the moment he stepped out of his quarters, Skywarp and Thundercracker lying in wait for him outside the door, though they knew they were more than welcome to wait inside. He and Grimlock had found a place with a receiving room for that very reason.

Starscream arched an orbital ridge at them, sensing mischief, which Skywarp could rather frequently convince Thundercracker to assist him with. “Can I help you?”

Skywarp beamed.

Thundercracker rolled his optics and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his arms folded under his cockpit.

“So,” Skywarp said, with that playful chirp that only made Starscream twice as suspicious, “We just got our coding upload.”

Starscream’s orbital ridge climbed higher. “Congratulations?”

"Do you have any tips or tricks for us?" Skywarp asked as he fell into step beside Starscream, hands tucked behind his back, beaming innocently.

Starscream didn't believe it for a second. He eyed Thundercracker, but their most inscrutable trinemate had not clarification to offer.

"No. The medics haven't come up with guidelines yet. This is all new material for us," Starscream said. He squinted into Skywarp's mischief. "Why?"

"You mean that you and Grimlock haven't started trying yet?" Skywarp's optics rounded with false disbelief, because the edge of his smirk was far too much of a tease. "Now that's surprising."

Starscream rolled his optics. "Say what you mean, idiot." He tilted his head toward Thundercracker, walking sedately on Skywarp's other side. "You're in league with him?"

"It is an unfortunate requirement in a relationship, I'm told," Thundercracker said, and his wings fluttered. "Swoop and Skywarp are impossible to argue against."

That Starscream can believe.

"We are trying," he conceded. "Whether or not we are successful, who knows? There isn't enough knowledge on the process to give us a definitive answer."

"I knew it!" Skywarp grinned, triumphant.

"I'm not against sparking," Thundercracker said, his tone far more controlled and even. "It is important for the future of Cybertron. I'm merely against plunging into the unknown without guidelines."

Starscream shrugged. "Someone has to be the trailblazer. In this, Grimlock and I agree." It was something of a misconception that he and Grimlock agreed on everything. The argued frequently; they simply chose to do it where no one could see or hear them, to always present a united front to the rest of the Decepticons, and Cybertron by proxy.

"We're trying, too," Skywarp said and his field butted up against Starscream's with happiness. "Either me or Swoop want to carry. Not that we know what we're doing either. Who else do you think might try?"

"I don't want to guess," Starscream said in a dry tone. He wasn't in the habit of speculating on the interfacing habits of his underlings. There were few he wanted to imagine in the throes of ecstasy.

He eyed Thundercracker. "You don't want to carry?"

Thundercracker shook his head. "No. The very idea of having another being... building itself in my frame is uncomfortable." He grimaced, and a shiver of disgust ran across his frame. "I will help raise the bitlet, and contribute to its forming if at all possible, but I don't want to carry."

"It's okay. Swoop and I are fine with it. What about you and Grimlock?" Skywarp asked, because he'd never heard of a boundary he wasn't willing to dance right over.

Starscream smirked. "It's a race to see who gets sparked first. He's as eager to carry as I am." Which he knew would probably be surprising to anyone who didn't know how much Grimlock hungered for a family.

Grimlock had grown up on Earth, been influenced by Earth and human culture. Their idea of family had seeped into every inch of his core. He treated Ratchet and Wheeljack as his parents, the other Dinobots as his brothers, and now, he compared Skywarp and Thundercracker to brothers-in-law.

Family was important to Grimlock. It was starting to be important to Starscream as well. He had to admit, there was appeal to it, to the organic concept of family.

"It must be a Dinobot thing," Skywarp said, and tapped his bottom lip. "I wonder if Snarl is interested? Or Cyclonus and Tailgate? Or Deathsaurus?" His optics lit up, wings flick-flicking with excitement. "Can you imagine a little baby dragon? I'll bet it would be the cutest thing."

Thundercracker sighed quietly. "We have no idea what these... sparklings are going to look like when they emerge? They may bear resemblance to their parents, or they might not. We aren't organics, Skywarp."

Skywarp rolled his optics. "I know that. I can still imagine it." He stuck out his glossa at Thundercracker -- another human behavior they'd adopted. "Besides, any kid of you and me and Swoop is gonna be a flier. We all know that."

"We hope that," Thundercracker corrected.

"Regardless of how they emerge, they are necessary," Starscream said, and it was half as much to them as it was to himself. He was more than aware he'd mated a grounder, and a predacon at that. He had no idea what the merging of their coding might produce. "We are, as a species, growing extinct. We need everyone who is willing to spark."

"Within reason," Skywarp pointed out. "We're doing fine with resources now, but if everyone decided to spark, plus all the Cybertronians that keep wandering toward us, we might start to run out again."

Every once in a while, Skywarp proved he had a processor along with the tricks and jokes and occasionally childish behavior.

"We can't dictate who is allowed to spark, unfortunately," Starscream said, although he wished they could. There were some mechs, not imprisoned, he wouldn't trust with an innocent being. But the most they could do was keep an optic on those mechs.

Perhaps it was time to start legitimately thinking about forming a special operatives team again, since Soundwave defected and Barricade was never going to find freedom, short of a complete reprogramming or processor wipe.

"But we can remind everyone that resources are not unlimited, and if anyone wants to wait to spark until we are on firmer ground, that would be advantageous," Starscream finished.

They arrived at his office -- and Starscream didn't think he'd ever get over the fact he had a genuine, official office which was his and his alone. Starscream keyed open the door, his trinemates following him inside, Skywarp flopping into one chair while Thundercracker eased onto another.

He sat at his desk, powered up his console, and was unsurprised when it immediately chimed at him several times -- he had more than a handful of internal messages waiting for him. Most of it were items he deliberately forwarded to his office console rather than addressing them internally.

Specifically, anything from Shockwave was for office hours only. Starscream might be the Winglord and Second in Command of the Decepticons, but he didn't waste a second of his free time on anything Shockwave had to say.

"I suppose you two intend to haunt my office all day?" Starscream asked as he skimmed the first of Shockwave's messages before moving on to the next one. The daily reports of Shockwave's efforts -- signed off on by his daily babysitter -- tended to be dry and uninteresting.

"Swoop's with Ratchet getting another certification. We're off-duty," Skywarp said with a shrug. "Thought we could convince you to play hooky and come fly with us."

Starscream snorted. "Given that dealing with Shockwave is apparently on my to-do list, I might just." He squinted at the screen.

"Is he still asking for his freedom?" Thundercracker asked.

"Only once every few months. I think he has the message on auto-send at this point." Starscream leaned back, rapping his talons on the desk top. "This is different. He wants to be granted an escort to the starbridge control dig site. His sensors have been picking up readings he wants to see in person."

"Yeah. Fat chance of that," Skywarp said, rolling his optics. "Does he think we're stupid?"

"I assume he's relying on us being desperate at some point," Starscream said absently. He typed up a quick reply to Shockwave -- the aforementioned refusal -- and instructed the scientist to forward any readings and theories to Perceptor and the scientists currently assigned the review of the starbridges.

Frankly, it was a shame they could not trust Shockwave. He was a brilliant mind, and a brilliant scientist, and if he was at all trustworthy, they could use him to research all of the new truths recently unearthed.

But Shockwave could not be trusted. He had no moral center. He was willing to do anything, no matter the cost. Well, so long as the cost was on someone else.

Starscream sent off the reply, and his computer chimed with an immediate response. "URGENT," it claimed, and it was from Shockwave.

Starscream sighed and skimmed the text, but it was nothing more than the same warnings he'd given before. Mysterious readings. Unable to determine cause. Use caution. Blah, blah. Everything the overseer at the excavation site already knew.

"You're right. I need some air," Starscream said, minimizing the message, and putting his console into hibernation. He'd deal with Shockwave later.

After a flight. To clear his head.

Skywarp cheered his victory. Thundercracker smirked. Starscream abandoned his desk, but not before sending a quick message to Brainstorm, suggesting he swing by and have a conversation with Shockwave, just to see what all the fuss was about.

~

Two weeks later, Hot Rod was no longer willing to be patient.

Jazz had not answered any of his messages, save for the official ones Hot Rod sent on behalf of Optimus per his training. Jazz hadn't sent any messages of his own either, not even friendly ones he used to send -- pictures of beautiful Earth landscapes, or new songs he'd found, or random thoughts throughout his day.

None of it.

If he wanted nothing more to do with Hot Rod, all Jazz had to do was say it. This silence, this ghosting, it was childish and immature and--

Well, Hot Rod had enough.

If it was over, it would hurt, but at least Hot Rod would have an answer, rather than this anxious state of not-knowing and waiting. He needed something more than silence.

Time was he would have had to ask permission to use the space bridge to visit Earth. Now, he was Rodimus Prime (eventually) and all he had to do was tell Optimus he wanted to visit Earth for a day, and voila, the way was opened to him.

Optimus had given him a knowing look, too, and maybe, Optimus had opened the door quickly. He and Jazz had been close -- before Soundwave -- and Optimus probably had an inkling of why Hot Rod wanted to go to Earth.

Enough was enough.

He did have to wait until a previously scheduled transmission moment, to save on energon usage, but that gave him plenty of time to decide what he was going to say.

Hot Rod showed up and waited, standing off to the side by a crate of supplies due to be delivered to Griffin Rock. The ground fairly hummed beneath his feet as they powered up the spacebridge, though there was a delay as they waited to receive before they would send.

He tapped his foot as he waited. He was, maybe, a little impatient. He wanted answers. He needed to know. This hazy state of in-between was a unique kind of torture, an anxiety he didn't need on top of all the responsibility suddenly dumped on his plate.

The ground thrummed. The spacebridge swirled to life in a pulse of blue-green color, and the air fairly hummed with the power of it.

Hot Rod straightened. Only a few more minutes now. Once the arrivals moved out of the way, he could step onto the platform. He had no idea what was scheduled to arrive. More raw ore for the fabrication plants maybe.

One mech stepped through the bridge, and Hot Rod's spark stuttered. Maybe this was Primus' hand at work, because Jazz appeared smiling, looking well rested, like he hadn't fretted at all in the past two weeks.

What had been a subtle curdle of anxiety in his belly blossomed to a full flush of fiery anger. His hands curled at his sides.

He stepped out of the departure line and headed straight for Jazz, on a course to intercept.

Jazz saw him, and it must have been a real shock, because he didn't manage to hide his surprise in time. Hot Rod caught the flicker of his visor, the twitch of his jaw, before he smoothed it over into his famous, easy-going grin.

"Hey, there, Rodders. Fancy meeting you here," he said, and Hot Rod wasn't fooled by it for a minute.

Hot Rod refused to let the charm seep away his anger. He crossed his arms and stared. "Are you going to keep running away or can we talk?"

Surprise flickered into Jazz's face again, but he kept the playful grin. "Ya know I always got time for you."

"Strangely, that doesn't extend to answering any of my messages."

"Fair enough," Jazz conceded. He rocked on his heelstruts and cast a glance around them, which pointedly, they were in a rather public arena, and blocking the ramp to the spacebridge. "Not here, I'm guessin’."

Hot Rod shook his head. "No. I don't want to feed the rumor mill anymore than we already have. Come on. I know a place." He turned and walked away. He forced himself not to see if Jazz followed.

If he didn't, Hot Rod supposed he had his answer.

He wrapped himself in a cloak of confidence, even though his insides squirmed and twisted into knots. He pretended he knew what he was doing. He pretended Optimus was next to him, offering advice. He pretended the hunk of artifact in his chest actually meant something.

Jazz moved along beside him, and Hot Rod swallowed a vent of relief. Maybe there was something to salvage.

"How was Earth?" Hot Rod asked, to fill the otherwise awkward silence.

"Recovering. Humans are even more adaptable than we are. They'll be fine," Jazz said, and he sounded odd. Like he was issuing a report rather than speaking to a friend.

Maybe that's the way it was going to be from now on. Maybe this new title Hot Rod inherited was the ringing sound of death for their relationship, though relationship was a strong word.

Damn Primus.

Hot Rod hadn't wanted this at all.

"That's good," he said. "You haven't missed much here. Though I suppose you've been getting copies of the daily reports."

"I have. Sparklings and excavations and weird quakes. Sounds about par for the course on Cybertron."

"Mmm." Hot Rod made a noncommittal noise. He lapsed into silence. Awkward nothing was better than this forced conversation.

He didn't let himself look at Jazz. It hurt too much.

Hot Rod led Jazz to the administration center built up around the spacebridge, staffed by members of all three factions alike, along with a small living section for the engineers who preferred to stay nearby rather than make the trek for their shifts. Access to it was carefully monitored for good reason. Jazz would have no trouble. Hot Rod, now, didn't either.

"They're really taking this seriously, aren't they?" Jazz asked, oddly quiet as Hot Rod put his hand on the scanner and it read his signature, granting them access.

"Unfortunately."

Hot Rod knew there was a conference room near the bridge control. He took Jazz there, relieved to find it unoccupied, and used his new clearance to make sure they had privacy. He locked the door, dropped the audio recording, but left the video recording, because he couldn't cancel both. Safety measures were in place -- even for a Prime.

"Still not sold on being a Prime?" Jazz asked, his tone light, but his armor twitching as it clamped to his frame, and he found the view from the windows fascinating, though all they did was look down on the spacebridge.

"I never wanted to be a Prime. I wasn’t given a choice." Hot Rod forewent the uncomfortable chairs around the small table, and sat on the table instead, behind where Jazz stared out the window.

He knew, by the way Jazz's tires twitched, he felt the weight of Hot Rod's gaze, and it discomfited him.

Good.

Maybe he could get a small taste of the way Hot Rod had felt for the past two weeks.

"I think that's just the way it is. Primus don't give it to the ones who want it, 'cause they'll misuse it," Jazz said.

Hot Rod worked his jaw. "I don't want to talk about being a Prime."

"Just making conversation, Rodimus."

"Stop." Hot Rod cycled a ventilation, forced it through the hitch in his vents. "Don't call me that. If you're trying to put distance here, well, congratulations, you succeeded. All you had to do was say it. You didn't have to play this game."

Jazz half-turned, and all Hot Rod had was a glimpse of the light in his visor. "Didn't think what we had was something that needed to be said."

"What we had were on your terms, Jazz. Not mine."

"You never asked for anything else."

"You made it pretty clear I shouldn't."

Jazz sucked in a long breath, rocked on his heels, and moved away from the window, as if he were too restless to stay in one place. "Are you asking now?"

Hot Rod swallowed, trying to vent through the nauseating churn of regret and anger in his belly. "I'm asking for answers. Real ones. No games."

Jazz rubbed a hand around his mouth, glancing past Hot Rod with a shift of his visor before returning his attention to Hot Rod, still with that distance between them, too far for Hot Rod to get a read on his field, even with the boost the Matrix now gave him.

"Ask," he said.

Hot Rod nodded, and gathered his thoughts. He'd just... lay his cards out on the table, and see what hand the universe dealt him.

"I've never pushed for anything from you," Hot Rod began, and hoped he didn't screw this up. "I'm not going to push for anything now. I just want to know if I should bother comming you, or if you'd rather walk away, so I know what I'm in for."

Jazz rubbed his face again, and now his armor had drawn tight to his protoform, like he was in the middle of battle and needed to protect himself. "I don't-- I don't want to walk away. That's not what's happening here."

"Really feels like it," Hot Rod said.

Jazz's shoulders slumped. "I know. I just..." He trailed off, vents huffing, as though frustrated with himself, or the situation, or the fact Hot Rod had backed him into a corner.

He didn't know.

All he knew was that he needed an answer now. One way or another.

"Look, you don't want to deal with this, that's fine," Hot Rod said, and he thumped his chassis for emphasis, against the old artifact which had done nothing but ruin his life. "I don't want to deal with it either. I don't get that choice, but you do. So take the out, Jazz. No harm, no foul. I won't blame you. We can walk away friends."

It would hurt. But it was better than this in-between.

"I don't want the out," Jazz said, but his conviction didn't seem to match his words, and he was so damn impossible to read.

Hot Rod threw up his hands. "Then what do you fragging want? You're going to have to tell me, because things have changed, and we can't keep on the way they were. I can't keep on that way." He jabbed a thumb toward his chestplate. "I've gotta deal with this. I can't do that and try and read your fragging mind, too. I need one less worry."

Jazz raked a hand over his head. "I get that, I do. But I need time. I need to figure this out. I need--"

"You had time," Hot Rod snapped, and he hopped off the table, because the agitation in his limbs needed room to move. "You had two whole weeks of ignoring me to figure it out. I don't have time to give you, so if that's your answer, then that's it. I'm walking away."

"Roddy--"

He shook his head. "No, Jazz. No. I can't." He worked his intake, felt the heat at the back of his optics, and swallowed it down. "I have never asked for anything because that's not what we were. That's not enough for me anymore."

He paused, took a deep breath and gathered himself. He was a Prime now. He could do this.

"So here and now, I want an answer," Hot Rod said, and stepped closer to Jazz, close enough he could read Jazz's field, if he so chose. "Do you want to try an actual relationship with me, or do you want to take the out?"

Jazz looked at him, his mouth opened and closed, and in an instant, Hot Rod saw it -- the urge to flee in the tremble of Jazz's limbs, the way his visor flickered, the way he took a step back from Hot Rod.

He didn't have an answer.

And well.

That was answer enough.

"Alright," Hot Rod said, and he gentled his tone, heard the crackling in his vocalizer, and fought to reset it away. "That's it then."

A rumble echoed beneath his feet. For a moment, Hot Rod thought he'd imagined it, because the weight of emotion in the room was so heavy. But then it came again, heavier, stronger. Hot Rod had a second to frown, confused, when the world tossed out from beneath him.

A great cracking noise split the air. A rumble like a thousand pieces of metal and stone pouring into a tumbler made his audials ring. The ground shook so hard, it tossed Hot Rod to the floor, the lights flickering, his own gyros destabilizing. Lights flashed in alarm, but he couldn't hear the sirens over the cacophony.

Hot Rod struggled to get his bearings as his entire world quaked, and his vision wobbled, and his audials screeched feedback at him. A painting toppled from the wall. The transsteel of the windows fractured. Jazz tumbled to the floor.

It lasted forever and no time at all. It tapered off, and then it stopped, leaving only the screeching whine of the alert sirens to fill the quiet.

Hot Rod reset his gyros, his sensors, and climbed to his feet with a groan, standing on unsteady legs. He gripped the table to keep himself upright, the alarm lights flashing brightly.

"What the frag was that?" Jazz demanded. He, too, was shaky on his feet.

"I don't know," Hot Rod said. He hurried to the window, peering through the cracked transsteel, but couldn't see anything beyond toppled stacks of crates and mechs rushing around below. "But we need to get back to Polyhex. Now."

"I couldn't agree more," Jazz said.

Before they could exit, however, Hot Rod grabbed Jazz's arm. "We'll finish this later."

Jazz nodded. "Yeah. I guess we will."

~

It wasn't pandemonium, but it was close.

Optimus ran to the command center, Soundwave on his heels, and joined a mass of Autobot officers gathering as a result of the quake. Status reports poured in, faster than they could absorb, were it not for Flare sitting front and center, cabled into the main console.

"He shoved me out of the way, sir," said Mainframe when Optimus cast him a curious look. The conn tech shrugged. "Figured he could handle it better than I could."

"I'm getting reports, Prime. Multiple ones. The quake was planet-wide," Flare said, and for a moment, Optimus' spark ached. Flare was so much like Red Alert, it was painful to see. "I'm forwarding comments from Commander Grimlock and Leader Xaaron to you."

"Thank you, Flare," Optimus said.

"The epicenter appears to be west of here, beyond Iacon," Ultra Magnus said as he strode onto the command center, already juggling more than a few datapads. "I'm getting word that every starbridge excavation site suffered some damage."

"Repairable?" Optimus asked.

"All but one," Ultra Magnus said, and the look he gave Optimus was grim. "The control center was hit hard. Whatever this was, it came from around there."

"Control bridge adjacent to Hot Rod's disappearance," Soundwave pointed out as he peered over a nav-tech's shoulder, gesturing to the map of the surrounding area.

"I'm getting a priority comm from Perceptor," Flare said, raising his voice to be heard above the clamor. "I don't... I'm not really sure I understand it."

Optimus' spark throbbed. He moved to the conn, taking place of Springer, who stepped aside with a nod. "Forward it to me, Flare."

"Yes, sir."

It took a moment before Perceptor's voice, on the edge of panic, filtered into Optimus' comm. "--don't know what it is save that it is very large, and it's currently on a direct path for Iacon. It has destroyed our equipment and severely damaged the starbridge controls."

Optimus' spark leapt into his intake. "Hold on a moment, what are you talking about?"

"Oh. Prime." In the background, Optimus could hear shouting, rumbling, mild panic, but Perceptor sounded only faintly ruffled. "The quake you felt seemed to be the result of some large creature pulling itself out of the ground near the starbridge control, damaging it in the process."

"Creature?" Optimus asked, unsure if he heard correctly, while at the same time Flare said, "I'm getting transmitted images."

"Put them up on the main screen, Flare," Ultra Magnus said.

The monitor flickered, filled with static, before what had to be someone's recorded feed began to stream. It was hard to see anything at first, because everything shook and a massive blob seemed to take over most of the image. But then the viewpoint drew back and focused.

The entire Autobot command center took in a collective vent.

Optimus did not know what the creature was. He'd never seen anything like it before. It was massive, a construction of arms and legs and protrusions which seemed to have no definable shape, its outer structure covered in thousands of visible nodules. Biolights ran in spidery veins between the nodules.

It moved on multiple thick, trunklike limbs. It did not move very fast, but it trundled forward, and every step made the ground quake. What seemed to be smokestacks belched a pale gray mist into the air, which rippled on the exodus, suggesting the smoke was accompanied by intense heat. Optimus could not make out anything which resembled a head or face.

"What in Primus' name is that?" Springer said.

"I do not know." Optimus leaned forward, put his hands on the counter, his chest aching where the Matrix used to be. "Put us on high alert. Sound the alarm. I don't think it's here for a friendly chat." He glanced over at Flare. "The highest alert level."

Flare nodded. "Yes, sir."

Ultra Magnus stepped up beside him. "Sir?"

On the screen, the nub-like protrusions fell off, leaving empty cavities behind. Where the spheres hit the ground, they unfolded into a smaller version of the large thing, albeit with less limbs, slightly more bipedal.

"Contact Grimlock and Xaaron. This thing is too big for us to tackle alone," Optimus said, sounding much calmer than he felt. "Put the evacuation protocol on standby as well."

Ultra Magnus nodded. "Yes, sir. It'll be done."

Optimus cycled a ventilation, unable to take his eyes off the screen and the monster heading straight for the center of New Cybertron, albeit at a laborous pace, collecting more and more of an army beneath it.

Perhaps it was their reckoning.

Perhaps Primus hadn't forgiven them after all.

***