[TFP] Despicable Me - Chapter Four

[dracoqueen22]

Despicable Me
Chapter Four

There are a half-dozen more qualified mechs for this job. Why they’ve given the task to Smokescreen, he’ll never know.

Wheeljack would’ve been better. Arcee. Bumblebee. Anyone with more experience, more guile, more – what’s the word Jack used? Guts. Right. More guts.

Instead, it’s Smokescreen lurking around the corner, trying to be unobtrusive, and unsure how much he’s succeeding. He’s an archive guard, not a special ops agent. And when it comes down to it, no way can he take down or disarm someone like Megatron.

‘Observe and report,’ Ultra Magnus had said.

Smokescreen sighs and leans against the wall. He is the wrong person for this job. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to do a bad job of it.

A door creaks – open, not shut. Smokescreen peers around the corner. Megatron strides out of the room they assigned him. He stretches his arms over his head. His head swings left and right, and then he starts down the hall, opposite of where Smokescreen is hiding.

Where the frag is he going?

Well, Smokey. That’s your job to find out, isn’t it? Smokescreen rolls his optics and smacks his palm against his forehead. Duh.

He slips into the corridor and follows Megatron as best he can. The former commander doesn’t seem to have any destination in mind. There’s no rhyme or reason to the route he’s taking. It’s like he’s exploring? Which Smokescreen supposes makes sense. He doesn’t think Megatron has ever seen what they’ve done with Kaon, since you know, he was unconscious when they brought him in.

In the end, Megatron leaves the medical facility and steps out into a gloomy afternoon, the sky overcast and hinting of precipitation, whatever flavor of it they get this time. The streets are filled with mechs, scurrying about their business, the odd femme amidst their ranks. Some of them are returned Autobots. Others are reformed Vehicons or Eradicons. Still more are the newly sparked, those who came from the Well when Optimus dove into it, and eventually found their way to Kaon, confused and needing guidance.

They haven’t had any more arrivals since the first ‘bloom’ as everyone was taking to calling it. Maybe the Well is sentient or something and knows how much Cybertron in its current state can support right now. Smokescreen’s not a scientist. He can’t make an educated guess. He just does what he has to do and what he’s told.

Megatron plunges into the crowd, and those who notice him gasp and quickly give him a wide berth. Everyone knows what Megatron looks like and who he is. Even the newsparks.

If everyone keeps parting like the ocean to let him pass, then that'll make following him even easier. It helps that Megatron's so big. It's going to be impossible to lose him in the crowd.

Awesome.

Megatron doesn't seem to notice the way mechs avoid him. He walks with his head high, shoulders back, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. Must be nice, Smokescreen thinks, to be so confident even though you've been so thoroughly defeated.

Megatron keeps a steady gait. He's not in any hurry. His head swings left and right like a tourist. He slows down occasionally to peer into a storefront or through the transteel of a building, but doesn't stop to go inside. He crosses at intersections when he's supposed to and doesn't push a single civilian out of his way.

This is boring.

Smokescreen follows at a leisurely pace until Megatron slows down. He pauses as he comes up to a wide alley between two buildings. He looks left and right and even over his shoulder, and Smokescreen quickly looks into a nearby window, pretending to be fascinated by... wax? He thinks that's what the store offers.

His armor tingles with awareness. He waits for the space of two sparkbeats, and then he chances a glance Megatron's direction.

Megatron, by the way, is gone.

Slag!

He can't have gone further ahead, Smokescreen would see him above the crowd. He didn't cross the road. Which leaves the alley. What the frag is he going to do down there? Something nefarious no doubt!

Smokescreen hurries to follow, pressing against the wall to peer around the lip of it into the alley. It’s dark and dim, the buildings too tall to let much light through, and the lamps smashed. He doesn’t see Megatron though. Wouldn’t his biolights stand out?

Smokescreen frowns and creeps inside, his sensory panels hiked upward, sending pings into the gloom. Nothing living pings back. What the--?

“Why are you following me?”

To his credit, Smokescreen doesn’t shriek. But his panels go rigid, his armor draws taut, and he whips around, fumbling for his blaster with incompetent fingers. Megatron stands right behind him, arms folded, one optical ridge arched.

“How did you do that?” Smokescreen demands as he finally gets hold of his blaster and points it at Megatron.

Who, of course, doesn’t flinch. That one orbital ridge raises even higher.

“The real question is how you fell for it?” Megatron’s lips curve with amusement, fanged denta gleaming in the lowlight, like a Sharkticon cornering injured prey. “Are the Autobots so ill-staffed they’d send a rookie to trail me? Or was Ultra Magnus counting on you being caught?” He tilts his head. “Maybe it’s a test.”

Smokescreen bristles, his doors flicking back and forth before he can put a stop to them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He plants his feet, steadying his aim, and hopefully, his vocals. “Now tell me what you’re doing.”

Megatron barks a laugh. “I’m insulted.” He drops his arms and gestures to the roadway behind him. “Is it a crime to take a walk through the city? I thought I was free to go.”

“Well, you are,” Smokescreen says, because he knows that much is true. “But we’re not stupid enough to let you wander around. What if you’re planning to attack someone? Or… or…?” He fumbles for another potential act of villainy.

“Or build an army and raze this city to the ground?” Megatron’s grin widens. Humor dances in his field before Smokescreen quickly shuts down his receptors. He has no interest in that avenue of communication, no sir. “If I were going to do either of those things, shouldn’t I be more subtle about it?”

“That’s not the point!” Smokescreen says, but his blaster wavers.

Should he call Ultra Magnus? Finding out he’s being tailed is hardly a crime. Megatron honestly hasn’t done anything yet, and Smokescreen’s ninety-nine percent sure Ultra Magnus wouldn’t count a little prank as a crime.

“Am I under arrest?”

Smokescreen blinks. “What?”

Megatron tilts his head the other direction, and his hands drop to his sides. “Am I under arrest?” he repeats. He takes a single step forward, and though there’s no overt violence in the move, it still feels like a threat. Smokescreen unconsciously slides backward.

“Have I committed a crime?” Megatron continues, and Smokescreen swears he’s being toyed with, that laughter dances in Megatron’s optics rather than ill-will, which is frankly rude. “Do you have a pair of stasis cuffs so you can bring me before a court of law?”

“I’m not an enforcer,” Smokescreen corrects with a frown. “Besides, you haven’t done anything wrong. Yet.” He glares at Megatron, debates lowering his blaster, until he remembers who’s standing between him and the only exit. “Though that doesn’t mean you aren’t guilty. You’re responsible for everything.”

“Yes, I am, aren’t I?” Megatron drawls, in that dark, purring roll of his. “I’m dangerous and not to be trusted. So are you sure you don’t want to arrest me, rookie?”

Smokescreen, contrary to popular belief, is not stupid. He knows Megatron is as dangerous for his words as he is for his actions. So he narrows his optics and squares his shoulders and lifts his chin.

"Unless you break a law, you're not getting arrested," Smokescreen says. He refuses to be bullied or tricked. "That's the way it is."

A smile curls at Megatron's lips, revealing his pointed denta again. "So it is," he says. "Well, if your orders are to keep an optic on me, why don't you walk beside me instead of being an obvious tail. I could use a tour guide."

A tour guide...?

Smokescreen gapes at Megatron. "Are you serious?"

"It would be easier to keep an eye on me, wouldn't it?" Megatron asks, and though his tone is a parody of innocence, Smokescreen doesn't trust it for a second. "Steer me away from areas the Autobots don't want me to see?"

Smokescreen plants his hands on his hips. "We don't have any secrets or secret facilities or anything like that."

"Of course not," Megatron says, and if anything, his smile grows wider. "Such a thing would be unconscionable, wouldn't it?"

"Unconscionable..." Smokescreen repeats, wrinkling his nasal ridge. He squints at Megatron. "Are you trying to confuse me on purpose?"

Megatron tilts his head. "Are you saying you won't escort me?"

Smokescreen hesitates. Ultra Magnus hadn't said for him not to get caught. He hadn't explicitly said that Smokescreen is supposed to be sneaky about it. He only said for Smokescreen to watch where Megatron goes, what he does, and send out a warning if it looks like Megatron is about to do something bad, or is in the process of doing something bad.

He'd been pretty vague on what counts as misbehavior though. Smokescreen supposes it's up to his own discretion.

Megatron has a point.

It would be easier to figure out what Megatron is doing if Smokescreen is the one showing him around and answering his questions. Far easier than trying to watch him from down the street.

"Fine," Smokescreen says. He stows his blaster. "What do you want to see first?"

~

Smokescreen is an adequate tour guide. Young, obviously, and full of that bright-opticked enthusiasm for the Autobot cause which Megatron loathes so much. But adequate all the same.

He tries to steer Megatron toward areas he considers safe for Megatron to view. Which means Megatron continuously heads in the opposite direction. He cares not for the parks, the recreation, the places of idle gathering. Those are for a different time.

He wants to see infrastructure, law, order. He wants to know if the Autobots have learned from the mistakes of their predecessors. He especially wants to know if those rules in the lawpad they gave him are genuine or lip service.

“What’s this building?” Megatron asks, standing in front of massive structure which looks to have been renovated from some kind of warehouse. The ridiculously large Autobot symbol on the front hints as to its purpose, but he wants to hear Smokescreen say it.

“Oh, uh, that’s sort of the command center,” Smokescreen answers with a little laugh. He scratches the side of his jaw. “But you don’t want to see that. It’s boring. Lots of paperwork and stuff.”

“On the contrary.” Megatron starts up the low-grade ramp leading to the gleaming double-doors. “I’m quite intrigued. Would you say Ultra Magnus could be found inside?”

“Well, yeah, but he’s busy,” Smokescreen replies, and then his engine squeaks. “Wait, no. I mean…”

Megatron swallows down a chuckle. “Thank you, Smokescreen. You’ve been most helpful.” He quickens his pace and pushes through the double-doors, Smokescreen on his heelstruts, babbling something about making an appointment and getting in trouble. His field is little pinpricks of anxiety on the edges of Megatron’s own.

Inside, the building is crisp, clean, and business-like. Polished floors, wide windows, open spaces, clearly marked doors. A pair of lifts bracket a huge mosaic that’s front and center, something that must have been salvaged from the ruins judging by the rust-stains, pockmarks, and damage. The image supposedly depicted their history, that of the original Thirteen Primes.

Megatron only glances at the mural at first. Something nags at his subconscious, however, and he takes a second look. His spark squeezes. Is that…?

He steps closer, peering at the swathes of imagery. He knows the folklore, can pick out each Prime one by one, matching name to face, including the designation he borrowed for himself. The Thirteenth, however, the Nameless Prime. How had Megatron not realized his startling resemblance to Optimus? But there it is, solid as duryllium, serious blue optics staring back at him from a face too familiar.

We both know I didn’t choose what happened to me.

Had he any choice at all? Had either of them? What does this mean?

Megatron’s hands curl into shaking fists. Had his defeat been inevitable? Had he only been raging against a fate from which there was no escape? Had it been doomed from the start?

“Um, Megatron?”

There’s a blur of blue and white in his peripheral vision. Smokescreen peers up at him tentatively, his sensory panels drooping, one hand drifting toward his blasters.

Megatron tears himself away from the mural, the echo of Optimus’ face lingering at the back of his mind. He swears, in his periphery, there’s a flicker of a ghost. A shadow of Orion Pax, looking at him with dim optics and disappointment.

He whirls on Smokescreen, and is not the least bit satisfied when the rookie rears back from him.

“Where is Ultra Magnus?” Megatron growls.

Smokescreen works his intake, his face blanched of color. “Upstairs.”

~

Ultra Magnus is not the leader of Cybertron. He has not been appointed to the position. He technically heads the Autobot faction by way of the command structure, at least until someone more qualified comes along, provided Prowl survived.

Ultra Magnus is not a Prime. He is not a Senator. He is an officer of the law turned war general and tactician, and his experience wrangling the Wreckers is woefully inadequate when it comes to wrangling the madness that is Cybertron’s current state of civilian and political affairs. He is not built for this duty, and never has been, from the moment he stepped out of the Well.

Ultra Magnus is neither leader nor elected official, but everyone looks to him for guidance, and so he answers their call.

Times like these, Ultra Magnus wishes he were not so willing to come of aid.

“You want to return to Earth?” he asks of the former Decepticon commander who has stormed into his office without being invited, and immediately began spilling an array of demands as if Ultra Magnus is here simply to bow to his every whim.

Megatron’s optics narrow. He stares at Ultra Magnus, probably in much the same manner he used to stare at his subordinates, provoking a fearful obedience. “I could not have been any more clear.”

Ultra Magnus works his jaw. He fiddles with a stylus. He eyes Smokescreen, who lurks behind Megatron looking simultaneously guilty and lost. Thankfully, leading the Wreckers has given him a lot of practice in holding his temper when facing the unreasonable.

Yes, Wheeljack in particular is whom he thinks of.

“I understand what you’re asking,” Ultra Magnus says slowly, carefully, politely, even though Megatron had just spoken down to him as if he were a newspark from the Well. “What I don’t understand is why you think I should leap to obey your demands.”

“Am I not standing in front of an Autobot? Isn’t it your duty to help those in need?” Megatron says, like someone trained him in giving speeches. “Doesn’t Soundwave, a mech your faction trapped in a hellish shadowzone, deserve said help?”

“I never said he didn’t.” Ultra Magnus quietly cycles a ventilation, reminding himself of several calming techniques. “We are, however, grossly understaffed and understocked. I do not have the means or the methods to cater to your every whim. Neither do I have the expertise. The mechs best suited to reclaiming Soundwave from the Shadowzone are either trapped within it, dead, or uninterested in helping you.”

Megatron’s engine rumbles darkly. “Then order them to do it.” He leans forward, hands braced on the desk, as though looming will frighten Ultra Magnus into agreeing. His optics narrow.

“I don’t think you comprehend what is going on here.” Ultra Magnus rubs his forehead, feeling an ache behind his optics. He’d stand, if he thought it would do any good, but he also refuses to give Megatron so much as an inch. “I am no leader. I can’t order anyone to do anything. I can request, but it’s up to them to refuse.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Megatron’s vents loudly rattle, and his frown deepens. He glances toward a corner of the room, orbital ridges drawing down, and Ultra Magnus hears the distinct click-whirr of a systems check.

The frenetic swirl of Megatron’s field cycles back by several degrees.

“Fine,” Megatron bites out, as though the concession pains him worse than any blaster wound he’d ever receive. “Tell me who they are. I’ll persuade them myself.”

Really? Because he’s doing a rather poor job of convincing Ultra Magnus right now. But if he wants to continue pounding his head against a concrete wall, who is Ultra Magnus to deny him? Perhaps the fact that everyone is not going to bow to him will force Megatron to show his true colors.

Ultra Magnus rests his stylus on his desk and leans back in his chair. It is not meant to be casual, but to give him room should he need it. “You will, at a minimum, require the help of Starscream, Ratchet, and the human child, Rafael. In order to obtain Rafael’s assistance, you will need to go through Bumblebee.”

Megatron’s lips form a thin line, as though he’s realized the extent of his task, and that he must rely on someone for help, rather than expecting it to be done purely for the sake of who he is. That one of the mechs on the list is Starscream must burn beneath his armor like a scraplet infestation.

“I see,” Megatron says, through gritted denta. “And where might I find each of those individuals?”

Ultra Magnus blinks. He honestly hadn’t expected Megatron to continue on this fool’s errand. Surely, by now, Soundwave is offline. There is no energon to be found in the Shadowzone, no method to sustain himself. It has been over a year. Could anyone survive in that without going mad?

Ultra Magnus retrieves his stylus, drags a datapad back in front of him, and powers it on. “Ratchet and Starscream are no doubt in the laboratory, Smokescreen can show you where. I believe Knock Out is on shift today, so if Bumblebee is not on patrol, he will be in the medbay as well.”

“Bumblebee’s not. On patrol, I mean,” Smokescreen offers with a sideways look at Megatron.

“Then I believe you know where the medbay is?” Ultra Magnus asks, shifting his attention back to his datapad, idly dismissing Megatron with actions alone. You hold no power here, he says. He wants Megatron to thoroughly understand it.

Megatron twists his jaw. “You will open the space bridge to Earth provided I manage to get the help I need?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

Megatron pushes off the desk and straightens, somehow looking less for it. “You may have won the war, Autobot, but I am not beaten. There is still something left to fight for.”

Ultra Magnus laces his fingers together and braces his elbow on the desktop, looking over the top of his knuckles at Megatron. “Are you threatening to destroy this peace?”

“On the contrary. I intend to ensure it.” Megatron grins with a mouthful of sharp denta, the glint in his optics less encouraging than Ultra Magnus needs it to be. “Thank you for your time, Magnus. It’s been enlightening.”

Megatron spins on a heelstrut and strides out of the office without another word.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Smokescreen blurts out in Megatron’s absence, lurching forward like he fully intends to prostrate himself and beg forgiveness. “I tried to tell him you were busy, but--”

Ultra Magnus holds up a hand. “It’s quite alright, Smokescreen. I didn’t expect you to do anything but keep track of him. It’s the best defense we have.”

“Defense, sir? You, um, you think he’s going to attack?”

Ultra Magnus tilts his head. “What do you think?”

Smokescreen’s door panels wriggle. “Well, I mean, he’s rude and angry, but I dunno. There’s something off about him, too. He died once, didn’t he? And without Optimus here, maybe he really does want to change?” The hopeful cant to Smokescreen’s voice makes Ultra Magnus’ spark ache.

He really is a rookie.

“I wish we all had your optimism,” Ultra Magnus sighs. “Please, continue to follow Megatron. And take him to the laboratory. If he uses threats to ensure cooperation, notify me immediately. Don’t try to arrest him on your own.”

Smokescreen nods vigorously. “Yes, sir.” He bobs in place, one panel straining toward the door, but holding his respectful pose for Ultra Magnus. “Um. Is that…?”

“Yes. Go.”

Smokescreen clips into a sharp salute, and then he’s gone, fleeing out the door in pursuit of Megatron.

Ultra Magnus sighs. There was once a time he had attended to his duties with the same enthusiasm. Now, his duties seem to be nothing but paperwork that isn’t technically his job, but someone has to do it now that Optimus is gone. Someone has to hold the universe together.

Ultra Magnus wishes it didn’t have to be him.

~

It’s very hard to focus on inventory when one has a yellow and black Autobot attached to one’s back.

“There’s no one here,” Bumblebee says as he palms Knock Out’s abdomen and nuzzles into the curve of Knock Out’s neck. “I think that means you deserve a break.”

Knock Out tries gamely to focus on his datapad and the checkmarks in the appropriate columns. But the buzzing warmth against his back, and the damp exhalations over his tire rims are quite distracting.

“Something tells me Ratchet won’t approve,” he says dryly.

Bumblebee nibbles on a tire, and Knock Out’s knees wobble. “He doesn’t have to know.”

Knock Out licks his lips. “Well. Aren’t you the little rule-breaker?”

“I never said I was a good bot.” Bumblebee chuckles in his audial, dark and dangerous. “At the very least you could turn around and kiss me, you know.”

“Kiss,” Knock Out echoes and snorts. His stylus wavers as he checks off a box of hydraulic tubing. “I don’t think you’ve earned one.”

One of Bumblebee’s hands slides to Knock Out’s lower right abdomen, where his cable array is hidden beneath a jut of armor. “What do I have to do to earn one?” Bumblebee murmurs as his finger traces the nearly invisible seam.

A jutter of heat races through Knock Out’s sensory net. “If you’re serious, you can help with inventory.” He flicks his tires, one of them bouncing off Bumblebee’s shoulder. “There’s a spare ‘pad right over there.”

Bumblebee laughs and nips the rubber of his nearest tire. “You’re spending too much time with Ratchet.”

"We share working space. Spending time together is inevitable," Knock Out says with a grin, but he's lost his place in the checklist, and his frame cants toward Bumblebee invitingly. He deserves a break, doesn't he?

Nimble fingers stroke over his cable array panel again. "Promise to take the fall for it," Bumblebee wheedles, and he's so very good at wheedling.

Knock Out's resolve crumbles. He turns in Bumblebee's arm, datapad vanishing into subspace. "Fine," he says, and grabs Bumblebee's chin, pulling him into a long, savoring kiss. Bumblebee tastes like he's been sneaking candies from Ratchet's office, and Knock Out laughs against his lips.

"You little thief," he teases.

"Takes one to know one," Bumblebee retorts, squeezing Knock Out's hips and pulling their frames into delicious contact. His thumbs tease into an open seam, dancing over the cables beneath, and Knock Out shivers.

"Shut up." Knock Out slants their mouths together again, glossa tangling, and it's so weird, this organic idea of kissing, but he has to admit, he's come to enjoy it greatly. The hot, wet press of Bumblebee's mouth to his, the intimacy of it.

They might have to try human things more often. Though Knock Out draws the line at imitating their reproductive methods.

Gross.

The chime of the medbay door startles Knock Out, and he nearly bites Bumblebee's bottom lip.

“Duty calls,” he sighs as he extricates himself from Bumblebee’s arms and sets the datapad aside, pausing his calculations. “With my luck, it’ll be another construction accident with another poor Vehicon as the unfortunate mech.”

“That happens often?” Bumblebee asks as he trails Knock Out into the main lobby.

“Often enough. Someone needs to teach them to duck.”

Knock Out’s grumbling trails off. He grinds to a halt. Bumblebee bumps against his back. An urge to flee crawls up out of the pit of his belly.

What the frag!?

“L-Lord Megatron,” Knock Out stammers, his processor stuttering to a stop, giving him a dial tone. “What brings you here?”

Isn’t Ratchet supposed to be Megatron’s primary medic? Besides that, isn’t Megatron supposed to be gone? As in not in the city anymore? As in back to whatever rusty Pit Starscream had dragged him from?

Megatron’s optics narrow. “This is a medbay, is it not? What do you think I am here for, Knock Out?”

Oh, but the condescension in his tone burns. Knock Out bristles, dredging up courage from who knows where. Maybe it’s the warmth of Bumblebee at his back, field brimming with outrage and something else, something warm and comforting despite the chill of Knock Out’s own tangled emotions.

Knock Out squares his jaw. “It’s just that you don’t seem injured, sir,” he says, and hates himself for the deference because Megatron is not his commanding officer anymore, but it’s almost impossible to shake old habits. Old lessons he gave himself in order to ensure his own survival.

“I’m not.” Megatron tilts his head, and his gaze slants past Knock Out to the Autobot behind him. “I’m told I’ll need the expertise of your human to free my communications officer from the prison you threw him in.”

Bumblebee eases up beside Knock Out, only to slide half in front of him, as though standing between Megatron and Knock Out. “You want to rescue Soundwave?”

“Yes.”

“And you need Rafael’s help?”

Megatron’s jaw twists. “I thought I’d made that abundantly clear.”

Knock Out braces himself for the flash of Megatron’s anger, heavy and bright in his field, and is surprised when it doesn’t come. There’s irritation. More than a little frustration that he’s reduced to asking for help rather than demanding it. But physical anger?

Not a trace.

Weird.

“You did.” Bumblebee’s engine revs with menace, and his panels twitch, so minute Knock Out might have been the only one to catch their motion. “I must have missed the part where you actually asked for it though. Maybe it was lost in the way you barged in here, insulted my partner, and then demanded help like it was owed to you.”

Knock Out’s optics widen.

Megatron chuckles, but it’s not an amused sound. Far from it. That chuckle is one he used to give before backhanding the nearest offender.

“Did your resurrection grow you a spinal strut along with that vocalizer, little bot?” His hand twitches at his side, pulling in and out of a fist, and Knock Out puts a hand on Bumblebee’s elbow warningly. “I remember how it felt to take the first one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Optimus so angry.”

He grins, a sharp thing full of denta, like a hungry turbowolf about to pounce, like he’s waiting for Bumblebee to make the first move. Megatron always knows what buttons to press, what truths to use to hurt.

Bumblebee’s field flashes. He growls and takes a step forward, but Knock Out squeezes his arm tight, holding him back. Bumblebee is skilled, and Knock Out knows he can hold his own in battle. But fighting Megatron here and now? That’s a fool’s errand. Only the likes of Ultra Magnus or Optimus Prime can do that, and one isn’t here, and the other one died trying to do this very thing.

“Bee,” he murmurs, squeezing Bumblebee’s elbow. A quiet warning.

Bumblebee’s armor vibrates under his hand. “No,” he says. “You’re not getting anywhere near Raf.”

The medbay door chimes as it opens again, and Smokescreen comes running into the mess, skidding to a stop somewhere near Megatron’s left shoulder, his vents gasping. “There you are,” he says, alarmed, door panels splayed wide. “How the frag am I supposed to keep an optic on you if you keep walking away from me!”

“You are referring to a problem that’s not mine,” Megatron says, but without taking his optics from Bumblebee. “I want to rescue someone, and you don’t want to help?”

“You haven’t asked!” Bumblebee snaps. His hands form fists, his engine growling. “And if you think I’m going to stand here and listen to your threats, and then let you come within walking distance of Raf, you’re even crazier than you were on the dark energon.”

Smokescreen’s optics spiral wide. “Frag,” he breathes, and takes a pointed step away from Megatron, his gaze darting from Megatron to Bumblebee and back again.

Knock Out can sympathize.

Bumblebee feels like a tension wire about to snap, and Megatron’s temper is legendary. How many times has Knock Out been on the receiving end of his fury? He can at least count his. Primus knows Starscream has to have lost count. Soundwave probably has no clue. Megatron always did have his favorites.

Survive.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Megatron hisses. He shifts, and the tension in the room triples, but he neither moves forward or back. His field unfurls outward, like a suffocating mass, and Knock Out’s throat clogs, his fingers shaking on Bumblebee’s elbow. “Optimus would have--”

“Optimus isn’t here anymore!” Bumblebee shouts, and Knock Out startles and Smokescreen squeaks, because Bumblebee’s field explodes, too. It’s anger, and it’s grief, and it all funnels forward, finding a viable target in Megatron.

Oh, Primus. It’s going to be a slaughter.

Knock Out groans, and Bumblebee continues, snarling at Megatron like a wounded mechanimal.

“He’s not here because he had to stop you, over and over again, and in the end, it took him dying to do that,” Bumblebee shouts, and his voice goes rattling and raspy, like a vocalizer struggling to engage. “Don’t you dare come in here and tell me what Optimus would have done or what he would have wanted.”

Megatron rears back, and there’s a flash of panic in his field. It’s there and gone again, but Knock Out feels it, and he knows Bumblebee has, too. Especially when Megatron’s gaze darts to a corner of the room – an empty corner no less – and his face drains of color. He bares his denta, his armor drawing tight to his protoform, like cornered prey.

“Know this, Autobot.” Megatron vents, labored. He sways a moment on his feet, hands clenching and unclenching. “This isn’t for me. This is for Soundwave. He’s trapped in a nightmare of your making, aware and alone, and I won’t stand for it.”

Bumblebee lifts his chin. “Then you’re going to have to figure out how to ask for it, Megatron. I’m not afraid of you. You can’t bully me.”

Megatron’s intake bobs. He squares his jaw, and he’s not even looking at Bumblebee, he’s staring past them, into the corner. There’s a glazed, unfocused look to his optics, and if Knock Out thought he could pull out a scanner and get away with it, he would. He doesn’t want to move, though. He doesn’t want to call attention to himself.

“I am asking,” Megatron grits out, like the words are torn from him, like they hurt, and his vocalizer squeals and starts and stops, “for your help. To save a mech who doesn’t deserve that terrible fate.”

Silence.

Knock Out doesn’t dare ventilate. Smokescreen must feel the same way, because his optics are wide, his frame is frozen, one hand lifted toward his comm like he’s planning on calling for backup, but hasn’t made up his mind to actually do it yet.

Bumblebee huffs. “That doesn’t count as an apology,” he mutters, but his field slides through the room and deflates the larger bubbles of tension. “I’ll ask, but I’m not guaranteeing Raf has any interest in helping you. Meanwhile, you can stay here. On Cybertron. In a cell if I have my way, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Knock Out knows imprisonment won’t happen, not without Megatron actually committing a crime. Coming into the medbay and trying to throw his weight around doesn’t count, sadly. But they can keep Megatron from going to Earth at least.

Megatron works his jaw. He straightens. “You do that,” he says and abruptly spins, stalking out of the medbay as though the conversation has come to an end.

It hasn’t, not politely, but Knock Out’s hardly going to argue against Megatron leaving.

“I’ll just, uh, go make sure he doesn’t terrorize anyone else,” Smokescreen says with a strained smile. He points a thumb over his shoulder as he backs toward the door. “Or well, report it to Ultra Magnus at least. Um. Bye!”

He’s gone just as quickly. The door cheerfully chimes at his departure.

Knock Out presses his lips together. He folds his arms over his chassis, alarmed to find a clatter in his armor.

“Well,” he says, shakily. “That was fun.”

“I need to punch something,” Bumblebee hisses. His door panels flick out, armor fluttering around his substructure in a defensive wave.

“So long as it’s not me,” Knock Out says, trying to lift the mood.

Bumblebee whirls toward him, his optics cycling wide. “What? No. Never.” He pulls Knock Out into a warm embrace, his field all but smothering Knock Out in warm apology and reassurance. “I promise. That’s not something I do.”

Knock Out pinches him in the side. “I know that.” He relaxes into the hug, because he never says no to the hot press of Bumblebee against him. “It was a joke. And apparently not one you find funny.”

“Hurting you is not my idea of funny.” Bumblebee takes his chin in hand, pressing their foreheads together. “War’s one thing. But that’s over, and I don’t plan on having to fight you ever again.”

“It won’t come to that. You know how I am about being on the winning team.”

Bumblebee chuckles, but it’s shy of his usual energy. “Yes, I do.”

He brushes their lips together for an electric kiss, and Knock Out grips his sides, leaning into the taste of him. He wants nothing more than to pull Bumblebee into one of the isolation rooms and swap charge until his processor goes blank. He wants to soak up Bumblebee’s field until he remembers how it feels not to be afraid.

“Meet for a race later?” Bumblebee asks, and Knock Out’s not surprised. They’re both going to need to burn off some stressful energy.

“As soon as my shift is over,” Knock Out promises. He traces a seam on Bumblebee’s chestplate, the pad of his finger following a sharp curve of dark black.

“Good. I’ll bring the engex.”

Knock Out laughs and knocks his forehead against Bumblebee’s clavicle, finally feeling as though he can draw a free vent. “You’d better.”

Primus, but he wishes Starscream had left Megatron in that cave to rot.

They don’t need any more complications.

***