Alteration

by Mikmerakii

Summary:

"This a bad time to say I got the touch?"
"Better yet, I think ya have the power. Or however that lyric goes."

IN WHICH a girl hums through life in quiet rhythms, but for every thousand lives she's lived, each time, the tempo stumbles. Each time, something intervenes. Each time, she forgets who the song was meant for.

Until the sky splits open, and a new melody crashes into her world. They call themselves Cybertronians. With them comes a rhythm that begins to thread through the silence, carried by a name that pulses like a beat beneath her skin.

They bring chaos, sure, but also family. And for a moment, everything feels in tune.

Without fail, she falls again and again, across realities rewritten, trapped in the same fractured harmony.

But the AllSpark hums louder now. She can hear its presence.

Because they were never supposed to be there.
But maybe... they were exactly what was needed.

Because sometimes, the song isn't about being heard.
Sometimes, it's about who listens.

Notes:

• Inspired by Small Fry by WritingDumpsterFire

femme!oc x jazz
reincarnation (a lot), found family, dance lesson w/jazz, some decepticons aren't so bad, flirtatious jazz, holoforms & hella fluff
{ STARTS AS OG PLOT → EVOLVES INTO TRANSFORMERS PRIME, loosely followed }

started: 4/16/25
*also on wattpad

alteration Spotify mix:
the main one aint done but I edit it as I go
alteration spotify playlist
riff spotify playlist
replay's spotify playlist
jazz's spotify playlist

Chapter 1: Deja Vu

Summary:

"Only we will actually be kicking Con aft for real."

U N I V E R S E - 5 5 5 :
P R I O R  T O  A L T E R A T I O N

I've been here before.

She could've sworn she...

But that's impossible. This is the first time...

Hm.

The concept of deja vu is a weird one.

To feel as though you had been in a moment before. Like buffering, in real life, where you feel as if you've lived this exact moment but it hasn't happened before now.

Your subconscious is quite literally blaring alarms as if to tell you to remember something that hasn't even happened yet.

Then come dreams, vivid ones that will become reality...

It's not entirely insane to not rule out the idea of endless diverging paths that lead to those moments of flateration. Perhaps in one life you repeat the same mistake, maybe go down the same road, maybe your new version is trying to warn you to divert from other paths taken previously.

Not all can be avoided of course, because canon events exist, right?

You're meant to make mistakes, that's what it is to be human. You'll have to relive this mistake in every reality, every version of yourself.

It's the particularly egregious mistakes that stand out and you imagine remedies to. Perhaps in the next life, maybe another version of yourself will learn from it subconsciously and you'll become closer to who you were supposed to be. The purpose you were destined for.

We all have a purpose.

Some just vary in importance.

Deja vu can save your ass one time after the another if you're not stupid like your other, other alteration who decided to turn their blinders and go-lucky attitude on.

But what if this mistake, the one you relive, is not something you can fix or learn from? What then?

She didn't quite know because, well, this was only a theory.

And there is a theory around the concept of the multiverse–an infinite realm of being or potential of being of which the universe is regarded as part or instance. Trippy to think of theories within theories, but her mind liked to wander.

It's called the "invisible string theory," which implies that fate plays a role in someone meant to be in your life. You'll meet them again, and again, and again, and not just as a fleeting acquaintance but someone so significant to your personal story.

Visually, it was an invisible red thread connecting those who were destined to meet, regardless of time, place, and circumstance. The thread may stretch, it may tangle, but it will never break.

And she couldn't help but find it admirable to dream of.

Isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying someone to her? Who would it be? Has she met them yet?

Better question.

How the hell does one prove the multiverse exists, let alone the invisible string theory?

She could only hope there was a version of her that didn't have to deal with this shit, because who knew aliens weren't the creepy green guys with big eyes but rather giant, metal robots?

She was twelve years old when the first 'Decepticon,' or so they called themselves, ship touched down on Earth.

By the time tanks, jets and missiles took those that had been inside down, the city of Chicago was in shambles. Tens of thousands of lives were lost, but everybody thought that was it.

Six months later, they realized they were nothing but scouts, and the Decepticon warship entered their atmosphere.

They were nearly impossible to take down, let alone put a dent in the giant metal forces, that they soon realized were aiming to call Earth their home, without humans on it.

The world came together, all facing a common enemy, to pool their resources into a more effective way to fight back against these aliens. All rivalries, trade wars, politics were cast aside for the sake of their world.

What hits metal better than metal itself?

The Talos Program was born.

Derived from Greek Mythology, built by Hephaestus himself–a perfect name for giant robotic beings they built to protect them from those that called themselves Cybertronians.

Setbacks were given at first.

The neural load to interface the Talos proved too much for a single pilot.

That's when they implemented two pilots to share the burden.

The humans were busy actually putting up a fight against Decepticons, and winning quite a lot.

World domination turned into a surface war.

Danger into propaganda.

Decepticons into TV shows and toys.

She had seen plenty herself, and the kids adored the media and many figurines while living in various networks underground.

But every once in a while she couldn't help but wonder if there was a universe in which so-called Autobots existed and continued to keep the Decepticons at bay.

Not that any human could say they've seen one before. The information was only discovered after tapping into a severed head of one of the bots, and news spread fast about those of their kind that used to battle them. Apparently, it was a full-out war on their planet... Cybertron, was it?

To their luck, they didn't exist anymore. Just the memory of whatever scientists found and reported, later turned into various interpretations via TV shows and movies.

She'd kill for their help now, because she was awoken by a blaring alarm filling the once dark room.

"Valkyrie Sin report to Bay 06. Decepticon attack on the front."

"Rhea, wake up!"

Her eyes snapped open, alert but fuzzy as she gathered her bearing in the now flashing red lighting followed by the automatic lights.

But what really woke her up was the blanket being ripped off of her as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"We're being deployed. Real deal now. Better be ready."

She was not, but she wasn't about to admit that out loud.

Instead, she slowly rose out of bed, tension in her shoulders as her personal alarm clock was already tugging off her camo pants and replacing them with the skin-tight ones of their uniform.

"Remember. It's just like our training and field tests,"

Rhea was half-listening, busy stretching her arms above her head–the loud pop of her shoulders a little too loud. She blamed the plastic, thin mattress she was given.

"Only we will actually be kicking Con aft for real."

She chose to ignore the confidence and suffer internally with how much she was a nervous wreck.

"What time is it, Nellie?" she asked instead.

"Three."

"AM?"

"Yup."

Nellie was already suited up, tucking her dog tags into the matching, skin-tight, long-sleeve top while Rhea trudged over to the bathroom.

There were two heavy knocks on the door, someone telling them to hurry up.

With nothing but a closed door between them and whoever was on the other side, she didn't mind flipping them off for rushing her. Nellie laughed, throwing the younger girl's clothes in her direction which she lazily caught.

They suited up quickly, traveling the halls to their respective bay side by side.

One radiant with confidence, immediately called out as they entered the loading dock, "Lets kick some Decepticon aft!"

The other was silent, not outwardly showing that she was anxiety-ridden as she wore nothing but a straight face.

Those working on the deck began to secure the girls in their suits made of fabric, urethane, rubber, synaptic processor mesh, and harvested metal from fallen Cybertronian that was damn near impossible to break. It was stronger than any of Earth's material, so it only made sense to make Drivesuits with it.

The truth was, Rhea was never meant for this.

She felt them snap armor to her back, then her chest, working on snapping her into the parts for her abdomen and legs as she gently lifted foot by foot for each piece to slip into.

Rhea was not a fighter in nature.

Along with the chatter in the room, the buzzing of machines drilling in the suit, snapping on the arm gear, and shoulder-plating, was deafening. In a good way. Best she not be left alone with her thoughts or she might turn tail and run out of here.

She couldn't. Nellie needed her here, and she'd do anything for her.

Shivers ran down her spine as the spinal cord was locked onto the back of the suit, nearly completing the circuitry suit that allowed the connection with the Talos and their human nervous system.

She buried her anxiety underneath this foreign armor as the helmet she was quickly handed, her thumb tracing over the hints of red adorned on the purple plating.

Matched their Talos.

Rhea slipped the helmet over her head, watching as the blue goo in the mask seeped down the moment the airlock sealed, traveling through the suit's circuitry–not that she could feel that.

It was called Relay Gel. Also something new the science guys cooked up that dispersed through the suit and served as a conduit for electrical impulses between the two pilots during the drift.

She couldn't help but wonder if they made it that blue color on purpose, given it was practically the same color their enemies "bled."

The pit in her stomach grew deeper as they entered the helm of the Talos that served as a cockpit, the hum of machinery whirring to life as the two motion rigs lowered down.

Her eyes stared down at her feet as she gently stepped over the gap in the floor and secured her feet into their locks.

It's just like the field test. It's just like the field test.

The motion rigged locked to her back, also securing itself around her right arm, which made her imperceptibly jump.

Blame the nerves. They made her jumpy. 

"Good morning, ladies. Surprised to see you alive at this time of morn', Rhea." A familiar voice said over the comm.

Relief filled her at the distraction, practically able to see his smug smile through the tone of his voice alone. She reached toward the center console between them, pressing her comm open so they could hear her.

"Madoc, what are you doing in the control room?"

"I run this place, babe. No place is off limits for me." 

"Astryd's gonna kick your ass when she finds out."

"If she finds out," he corrected, "and I never pegged you for a tattle tale, Ms. Stiles."

She grinned wider, teasing right back. "When it benefits me."

"What's the benefit here? You're off fighting Cons, annoyed that I wasn't deployed with you guys by the way. You won't get to see her wrath."

Nellie was the one to press her com this time, "I'm sure she wouldn't mind waiting so she can have an audience to your ass-kicking. Again." 

"That's cold."

"Mr. Everhart." A firm voice they knew as their commanding officer suddenly spoke in the background, "You must be lost if you're in the active command room. I suggest you find your way out before I give you further incentive to."

Madoc practically squeaked before turning on his formal, soldier voice when addressing out. "Finding my way out, Sir."

The girls shared a look, stifling their chuckles.

"Good." Madoc was long gone, and he addressed the command room, "Engage drop."

"Valkyrie Sin, reading for the drop." Nellie announced once their entire system was online, followed by the hiss of locks unsnapping from the bay.

The nervous pit in her stomach turned to butterflies as they free-fell for a few moments, clenching her fists together hard.

"Here we go!" Nellie whooped right before the brakes slowed their descent. Yay...

Their bodies jerked at the impact of the helm-cockpit meeting with the rest of the body of the Talos, getting locked in.

"Pilot to Pilot connection protocol sequence engaged." She could hear their voice over the comms as she tried to ignore the whirring charge of Valkyrie Sin coming to life, the Bay doors ahead of them peeling apart.

The platform the robot stood on moved forward, rain and wind suddenly pounding against the outside but not to be felt by the pilots inside. She only felt her stomach swirl as the ships locked onto their Talos and began to lift them into the air, delivering them and many other Talos to the battlefield.

"Prepare for neural handshake."

Hiding how sick she felt wouldn't be a possibility much longer.

"Starting in 15... 14... 13..."

"Ready to step into my head, kid?" Nellie asked, looking over with a small smirk.

Rhea used her humor to cope. "After you. Age before beauty, you fossil."

"I'm only four years older than you."

"And which one of us is closer to being thirty?"

Nellie shook her head and laughed.

"Neural handshake initiated."

The drift.

It was tech-designed in the light of something they discovered with much research on their alien invaders. It allowed scientists to come up with the drift while replicating a version of Cybertonian bonding... only much more temporary. It was used only to pilot.

It still allowed the two pilots' minds to meld together, sharing their memories as they melted into the machine. So they moved as one, not needing to exchange thoughts out loud to fight as a single being.

It was a lot different from bonding, and there was much humans didn't understand, but it was certainly the closest version to it–not that they knew much about bonding and how deep it really was.

All they knew, the deeper the bond between the pilots, the better your Talos did in a fight.

It was why drift compatibility was so important.

Rhea forced herself to take a steady breath, ignoring the memories she just dove into and the feeling of someone else's presence in her skin as she continued. "Right hemisphere, calibrating."

Nellie followed, "Left hemisphere, calibrating."

Despite the machinery hooked to them, they moved with little to no restraint, and entirely perfect synchronization as their Talos followed their every move as they were dropped into the battlefield.

The rain was relentless. It poured like a punishment, turning the ruined streets into rivers and pounding the metal titans like war drums. Lightning cracked across the city's empty skyline, illuminating the battlefield in stark flashes—glimpses of towering Talos units locked in brutal combat, their silhouettes jagged and monstrous through the downpour.

They dodge crumbling buildings, trade blows with Decepticons whose frames scream with alien tech and jagged design. Every punch leaves dents in steel. Every second is a gamble.

Overhead, a roaring screech tore through the storm, followed by gunfire raining down on the Talos preoccupied with the Grounder battles.

With one scan, their systems locked on the purple and black flier, reading as "Skywarp" in their database.

His wings carved the sky, sleek and deadly. Plasma blasts fired from his cannons rained down like comets, ripping craters into the streets, striking down another Talos with a spray of sparks and twisted steel.

They were just thankful that it seemed the rest of his trine was elsewhere in the battlefield.

Inside their cockpit, Rhea flinched as the shrapnel from the blast rocked them, gripping the controls on her secured arm like they might vanish if she let go.

But she watched his movement, almost too fast to follow as he warped from one place to another to surprise troops.

Nellie was busy barking their observations as she geared up for the approaching Con that took notice of their arrival. "Talos Three is down. Four is flanking Dreadlock. Valkyrie Sin approaching combat."

Until the Seeker warped once more, and they instinctively raised an arm when gunfire rained down on them for a short burst as he flew by. Only for the mech previously approaching them to swing.

"I think we're the next target." Rhea noted out loud, referring to Skywarp.

"No shit," Nellie snapped back, fighting with her half of the Talos controls. Her side of the Talos was locked in close combat with a ground-based Decepticon, clawing and ramming against their shielding. "I need you on Skywarp, he's killing out air cover!"

Rhea looked up through the smeared cockpit glass. Skywarp was arcing back into a dive, another attack run. If they didn't take him out soon, he'd tear through the remaining Talos one by one.

"You'll have to do it," Nellie growled. "I'm a bit occupied."

Another missile shrieks past, ripping through a building not far from them. The entire structure collapses, raining debris. Screams from comms. A Talos unit below is crushed under a steel column the size of a bus.

Rhea flinches. The noise, the smell of scorched metal seeping into the Talos—this isn't a simulation. This is real.

She swallowed hard.

She wasn't ready for this...

Sensing this through the drift, Nellie spoke once more, "Rhea, look at me. Look."

Her eyes flicked to her. A rush of assurance flew through the drift, trying to send the confidence she felt in her.

"Breathe. You just gotta line up, and fire. You can do this."

It was not in Rhea's nature to hurt anyone, let alone kill someone. And it was only dawning on her while in the reality of it.

But Nellie pushed her doubts away, and she trusted Nellie.

If Nellie thought this was right, that she could do this, then she would.

Outside, Skywarp dips again, strafing low across the street. But then he warped right in front of them in time for him to shoot a bolt of plasma blasts past their Talos, nearly tipping it the moment Rhea activated the cannon and lifted it.

They both stumbled, being held by the other Con Nellie struggled against.

Rhea closes her eyes for half a beat.

Her breathing slows.

She moves her hands into position with care, recovering from the previous hit as Nellie follows her movements even if Rhea had control over the right hemisphere. 

The targeting HUD locks into place—tracking Skywarp's movement in a sweeping arc.

She exhaled.

Focus.

Traced the line of his flight.

Skywarp curled into a dive, arcing down toward the street. He prepared another strafing run—

And fired.

The recoil jolted the entire Talos. The round screamed into the sky and slammed into Skywarp mid-dive. There was an explosion of light, then chaos—his wing twisted, systems sparking.

Skywarp spiraled out of control, shrieking as he transformed last second before crashing into a skyscraper with a deafening roar. The building collapsed at his impact right on top of him.

Rhea blinked. Shoulders sagging with disbelief.

"I hit him," she said, stunned.

"You got him," Nellie said with a proud tone, as if the girl didn't just pull the trigger on a living being. "You brought down a flier on your first try. Not bad for a softie."

Rhea gives a weak laugh, but her hands are still shaking. She's proud—and terrified.

She was finally able to maneuver around the con pinning her, blasting his spark and standing back upright.

Then, movement up ahead.

The mech emerges from the smoke, rising like a demon from a dream. His frame gleams black and blue, rain slipping down his armor in rivulets. He looks up with those burning red optics—aimed right at them.

Barricade.

He walked with purpose. Slow. Confident. His optics glowed with cold menace.

They barely had time to reposition when Rhea spotted something out of place. Something fragile. Something small.

A little girl.

She stood in the middle of the street, soaked, barefoot, crying into a rabbit clutched to her chest. Her eyes were wide, terrified. Lost.

"Nellie," Rhea said urgently. "There's a child. She's right there—she must've been missed during evac." Or her family was trying to live on the surface, stupidly... But she had been that person before. That was a story for another day.

"No, the area's supposed to be cleared—"

"She's right there!"

"We are literally face to face with Barricade right now. We don't have time—"

"We make time!"

Rhea yanked the Talos into a kneel as a charging Barricade was thrown over them with the raise of her side of the Talos. It bought them time.

The street cracked beneath their weight. With shaking hands, she plunged their arm into the ground and punched until the concrete gave way—revealing the mouth of an old maintenance tunnel.

"Go!" she shouted.

The girl stared, hesitated, then bolted, feet slapping through rainwater. She dove into the tunnel just as—

Barricade struck.

He rammed into them with a roar of rage, knocking the Talos backward like a toy. Sparks exploded.

Rhea and Nellie both screamed as alarms blared across their HUDs.

"Brace!" Nellie yelled. "He's going for the--"

Too late.

Barricade leaped onto them, claws shredding the weakened armor. He punched through the shoulder plating and ripped open the cockpit. Wind and rain poured in, chaos and fury.

Rain slammed into her face like needles and wind howled inside, a roar that deafened her as alarms screamed and sparks flared around her.

Everything blurred—Nellie yelling her name, warning lights flashing red, the storm outside surging in like a beast unleashed.

The protective shell of their Talos, their armor, their safety, had been ripped away, and now there was nothing between her and the Decepticon outside.

Rhea barely had time to look up before she saw him.

Barricade's face filled the opening—massive, angular, monstrous. His optics were cold, a predator's stare. She froze. Something primal locked her in place.

Run.

Move.

Do something.

But she couldn't.

Terror iced through her body, a scream trapped in her throat as a massive claw reached in.

And then—

He grabbed Rhea.

Tore her out like a ragdoll, as though the universe was punishing her for the mistake of stepping out on this battlefield. She hurts, and it'll hurt her right back.

Nellie screamed. "RHEA!"

She could only watch it all from the torn cockpit—helpless as the girl she called a sister was murdered in front of her, feeling every bit of Rhea's helplessness, terror, and pain before the drift was snapped.

Her scream broke the storm. "NO!"

Thunder boomed as lighting zipped across the sky, as if the universe was stamping a period on yet another mistake repeated in time.

Across thousands and thousands of versions of herself that had gone through this before, different versions and realities across the multiverse, every single one ended the same.

Some might think her purpose was merely to die, to push the girl she saw as a sister forward through it, to die in the name of sacrifice.

And yet, the universe had other plans for her beyond such. A fate bigger than she could know rested on her shoulders the moment something... changed.

It would only take an alteration and the soul attached to the other end of the string to draw this purpose to the surface.

Because the Autobots were never meant to be in Universe-555, nor were they meant to see how Rhea's story played out before that invisible string drew her close in their own universe, and those two facts alone would change everything.

Chapter 2: Error_404

Summary:

"Robot civil war. Should buy me fifteen minutes to figure out what not to burn in this house."

U N I V E R S E - 5 5 5 : 4 MONTHS b̴̡̜̻̤̯̖̻̼̖̼̖̼̕̕e̷̸̴̛̗̗̝͔͕͍̞f̸̴̴̙̙̲̱̙̩̺͍̩͠͡o̵̸̡̡̡͓̩r̶̵̸̨̖̬̯̱̱͙̤e̶̡̡̡̨̦̹̩̥̩̱̟̙̬

ERROR DETECTED...TRIALING SYSTEM RESPONSE

> ̷̴͠͡B̸̢̬̻̠̬̰͘͡E̷͢͏̜̝̻͇F̸̢̳͇̯̤̀͟͢Ớ̸̡̡̠̮̖R̶̙̯̞͈̀͜͠E̶͏̡͇͠

> Ḇ̶̻̱̀ͅE̶͏̡̘͟͠F̷̢̳̼̹͘Ǫ̵̯͓R̸̛̦͇͢͡E̶͏̡͇͠

> Ḇ̸͘͠E̴̷̗͖̩̕ͅF̴̡̢̞͈͢͢O̷̸̤͡R̴͟͜͠͡–

> TROUBLESHOOTING...

 

[SYSTEM ALERT] ::: ERROR_404

::: TIMELINE CORRUPTION DETECTED :::

The first sign of trouble was the smell—burnt popcorn, mystery crayon, and the unmistakable tension of a brewing argument about cartoon robots.

Rhea rounded the corner of the hallway, nearly slipping on a rogue sock, and stepped directly into something squishy.

She didn't dare look down because she had learned that lesson early–if you didn't name it, it couldn't haunt you.

It was probably the slime she had deemed okay to make earlier at lunch, which she was regretting now.

The house was very much alive. Not in the haunted sense (although the laundry room was definitely plotting something), but in the sense of kids in every corner, footsteps pounding on the upper level, and the kitchen clock blinking like it was scared of commitment, and an ominous thud from said laundry room that made her mentally add fix dryer to the to-do list she hadn't written down but definitely carried in her head.

The walls weren't exactly closing in, but they sure felt like they were watching. That was everyday, a normality she had grown used to when being responsible for four children–none of which were her own, which she felt was important to point out.

She was only 24, so she thought anybody who might criticize the current mess of the "house" might cut her some slack.

Not to mention, there was something about a living space with no windows that kept the chaos echoing. Maybe it's the acoustics, Or maybe it's the fact that no one—child or semi-functional young adult caretaker—is entirely sure what time of day it is. She thought it might be time to make dinner, surely?

"RHEAAAA!"

There it was. The drama.

"CALIX IS BEING WRONG ON PURPOSE!"

That came from Cora. Sharp. Dramatic. Six years old and already ready to run a courtroom. Her little voice ricocheted off the walls like a Nerf dart in a cathedral more often than not, but who could be made at someone so cute?

The house wasn't quiet ever, anyway. And honestly? Rhea loved it. In a "this-is-mildly-chaotic-but-my-heart-is-full-and-my-socks-are-mismatched" kind of way. It kept everyone distracted from the world above–literally.

Then Cora came storming into the hallway like a tiny general, brown curls like coiled springs pinned up into pigtails, brown skin, and the type of fierce that made grown men reconsider their arguments. She marched toward Rhea with a pink glittery marker in one hand like a gavel and righteous fury in the other before her finger pointed straight at her twin.

Behind her, wide-eyed and calm in the face of certain doom, was Calix—her twin brother. Also six. Same Filipino features, same brown eyes, but about ten times gentler. He was a living teddy bear with a fondness for dinosaurs and compromise, which unfortunately made him an easy target during twin-related politics.

"All I said," Calix started carefully, "was that Transformers Prime Bumblebee is cooler than G1. I wasn't lying."

"He said it with confidence!" Cora snapped, like that made it worse.

Rhea didn't stop walking, just raised a peace sign over her head as she passed. "Settle your robot beef in the arena, children. I need to make dinner."

"The Arena" was the living room she stepped into upon trailing down the stairs, not even batting an eye when a head of messy brown hair popped out from the living room upside-down over the couch.

Jaxon was a chaotic good. He looked like he'd rolled through every messy part of the house on purpose and had the bandaids on his knees to prove it. ADHD in action. Bright, excitable, the kind of kid who could turn reading a cereal box into a dramatic performance.

"Okay but you guys aren't even mentioning Cyberverse Bumblebee," he shouted. "He speaks in movie quotes. That's art. That's—iconic!" And despite being four years older than the twins, he never failed to get involved in these arguments.

This was normal. This was a house that ran on juice boxes, robot lore, and sheer willpower.

As if on cue, a kitchen crash interrupted the debate—tupperware, by the sound of it. Classic.

Rhea rushed toward the kitchen in the next room, the image of one of the kids being crushed under a cabinet spurring her faster with worry. At least, until she turned the corner and found Rowan kneeling on the tile floor, calmly picking up a waterfall of lids and mismatched containers like this was just a Thursday night—which it was.

"You good?" Rhea asked, already knowing the answer.

He gave her a long, dry look. "Define good."

She smiled. There it was—that sarcasm she lived for.

Rowan had this quiet steadiness about him even at the age of fifteen, the kind of presence that balanced out the whirlwind of the younger kids. He looked like he walked straight out of a YA adventure film, but spent most of his time reorganizing the spice rack because someone couldn't alphabetize to save her life. (It was Rhea. She was someone.)

And dinner still wasn't made.

Rhea crouched down to help him, the two working to put the tupperware away before standing back up, the woman rubbing the mop of blond curls on the top of his head as a thank you–despite being taller than her. When his growth spurt hit, she was a bit offended to no longer be the tallest in the house even as the only adult.

"Dinner?" he asked, like it was a delicate subject.

Rhea glanced back toward the living room, where the twins had now roped Rowan into choosing sides as they turnedTransformers: Prime on, and Cora was writing in pink glitter marker on her brother's figurine. She couldn't see which one from where she was in the kitchen.

"Oh, they'll be occupied for a while," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "Robot civil war. Should buy me fifteen minutes to figure out what not to burn in this house."

Rowan grinned at her. "That's what you said last night."

"Yeah, and it worked, didn't it?" She flashed him a wink. "Robot debates: the perfect distraction while I panic over meal planning."

[!] UNAUTHORIZED ALTERATION INBOUND

WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY DETECTED

>> INITIATING DEFENSE PROTOCOL_09

>> SYSTEM STABILITY: ❗CRITICAL❗

>> THREAD FUSION LEVEL: 86% — AND RISING

>> DEFENSE PROTOCOL_09 FAILURE IMMINENT

Somewhere in the background, the TV had turned to static, followed by the loud complaint from the other room, "Hey! Transformers Prime stopped playing!"

"Can we watch Bayverse then?"

"Nobody wants to watch that."

"Earthspark?"

"Deal."

And Rhea still didn't know what was for dinner.

She turned back toward her task, nose wrinkling at the lingering scent of charred popcorn. The microwave blinked 12:00 at her in silent judgment.

Rhea exhaled, stretched, and rolled her sleeves up.

The knock on the door was more of a formality than anything. It creaked open before anyone had the chance to answer, followed by the shuffle of boots on the entry mat.

Nellie stepped into the house with the same cautious energy as someone entering a zoo enclosure. Her long brown hair was pulled into a braid over one shoulder, and a pair of well-worn gloves were tucked into her belt.

"Heya, warriors," she greeted as she stepped into the chaos.

Earthspark was playing on the TV now, and Jaxon was trying to explain to the twins how character development worked while simultaneously fending off a glitter attack. With the characters mid-fight, the twins were too distracted to listen because they were busy reenacting it with frightening precision.

Nellie grinned. "What did I walk into?"

"A robot war," Jaxon declared. "But like, the modern kind. With emotional arcs and redemption. Also dinner is being made!"

"Ah," Nellie said, nodding. "The best kind."

"Calix," She added, "if you're gonna do that spin kick, don't aim for your sister's head."

Cora gave her an exaggerated salute. "Copy that, Commander Nellie."

"Nice. Now aim for Jaxon."

"HEY!" Jaxon laughed, tackling a pillow instead.

Nellie grinned to herself and headed into the kitchen, where the microwave still blinked in judgment and Rhea was elbow-deep in the freezer.

"Smells like popcorn crime in here," Nellie said casually.

"Popcorn's the least of my concerns," Rhea muttered, pulling out the bag of frozen broccoli like it was a grenade. "You want to try feeding four tiny gremlins who only agree on fictional robots and juice brands?"

"I'll pass." Nellie leaned against the counter, looking at the TV from the entrance of the kitchen that separated the two rooms. The episode was of Starscream, Novastorm, and Skywarp as they wandered an underground tunnel network. "Still weirds me out, though. Seeing the Cons animated like that while we're busy fighting them above."

Rhea glanced back, where animated Megatron was mid-monologue to Starscream. "Yeah. Kind of sanitized, huh?"

"Wish we had that kind of Autobot backup."

Rhea cracked a smile at that, not looking up as she filled a pot with water.

Then came the air of tension, but neither wanted to bring up what they knew the other wanted to talk about.

Rowan, who'd been finishing putting the last of the tupperware away, glanced between them like he could smell where this was going. Nellie nodded at him.

"Hey, Ro."

"Hey," he replied, giving a small smile.

"Holding the fort down, as usual?"

He didn't deny it.

Rhea, sensing the shift, grabbed the bag of pasta like it might save her. "Hey Ro, can you do me a huge favor and make sure no one declares robot war again in the next ten minutes?"

He gave her that knowing look. The one that said you just want to get rid of me because adult talk is coming but nodded anyway. "You owe me a dessert."

"I always do," Rhea called after him as he left.

Nellie let the silence settle for a moment.

Then, softly, "You get your results back?"

Rhea focused very hard on the bubbles forming at the bottom of the pot, willing it to a boil as if it were her own blood under her skin growing hot from this conversation topic. "From?"

Nellie raised a brow. "Don't do that."

"I'm genuinely asking," Rhea said lightly, dumping noodles into the water as it began to boil. "You know how many random things I've signed up for to get free t-shirts?"

"I mean your Talos screening."

"Ah." Rhea stirred the pot a little too forcefully. "Right."

"Rhea."

"I've got plenty to do here," she deflected, turning to rummage in the spice cabinet like it owed her money.

"You passed, didn't you?" Nellie asked. "High compatibility. Higher than most of the cadets already enlisted."

Rhea didn't answer.

Nellie leaned against the counter, arms crossed, not unkind. "You know it's not too late. With your scores, the academy would fast-track you. You wouldn't even be bottom tier."

Rhea opened the fridge. Examined a lemon like it might explode. "We're low on produce again."

"I'm serious."

"I know," Rhea said, still facing the fridge. "I just—there's dinner. Baths. Homework. Jazz's arm is probably in pieces again." Rough play led to the poor figurine's demise.

There was a beat of quiet.

Nellie's voice gentled.

"I'll give you this." She slid something across the counter—a folded sheet of paper, corners worn. "Just think about it. That's all I'm asking."

A sharp beep cut through the moment, quite literally saving Rhea from this conversation.

Maybe there is a god, she inwardly praised.

Nellie checked her pager and sighed. "Duty calls."

As if summoned by fate itself, a shout came from the living room.

"JAZZ IS BROKEN!"

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"

"HE'S MISSING A LEG!"

Ah, so it was a leg this time.

"Calix pushed him off the table—"

"He was already leaning! Gravity is the real villain here!"

Rhea pinched the bridge of her nose as Nellie started backing out the door, grinning. "I'll let you handle that. See you soon, soldier."

"You're not funny," Rhea muttered after her, but her lips twitched despite herself.

With Nellie gone, she made her way to the living room, where the twins looked like they'd just been caught by a very disappointed commander.

Cora was now on the brink of tears, bottom lip puckered as Calix stood beside her, arms folded, deeply concerned for the accident he caused.

Rowan sat cross-legged on the floor, inspecting the plastic leg like it might offer answers. He was trying to perform emergency surgery on a Transformers figure using a twist tie and a hair clip.

"He didn't mean to break it," Rowan offered.

Rhea crouched down, "I believe Ratchet taught me a thing or two about fixing bots. Let me try. I did fix his arm the other day after all." She winked at the little girl who brightened hopefully as she remembered the events.

She took the toy from Rowan, and glanced it over, one leg in one hand and the three-limbed Jazz in her other.

Rhea gently pulled the hair tie from her blonde locks–which she normally kept up because she had so much of it–and lined up his missing limb. She twisted the hair tie a few times, making a note that they needed more super glue before it was tight enough to secure his leg in place.

"There. Jazz will make a full recovery." She handed the toy back to Cora who beamed.

Calix muttered a small sorry, to which she accepted because Jazz was no whole again.

"Okay," Rhea said, clapping her hands once as she stood up. "All bots report to the mess hall. Dinner in ten."

"Are we having spaghetti? Please say spaghetti." Rowan smiled at the thought. It was his favorite.

"Yup, and broccoli."

A collective groan.

"Not broccoli!"

"Greens are betrayal!"

"Greens are good for you," she corrected. "And you need them if you ever want to defeat any Decepticons."

That got them.

Rhea added to brighten their enthusiasm that had dimmed at the sound of healthy greens. "If you want dessert, I need two things: clean hands and the table set."

"Deal!"

Calix dashed off to grab napkins while Cora started lining up glittery utensils she'd clearly customized.

Dinner was a mix of elbow nudges, wild retellings of robot lore, and negotiations over who got the blue cup. And through all of it, Rhea smiled.

She didn't need a cockpit or a Talos.

She had her own kind of mission right here.

And she loved her mission, especially when she got to silently appreciate it when bedtime rolled around.

Night had come and the house was quiet. Peaceful in the kind of way that only came after a storm. Not that she minded the storm.

Rhea moved through the hall barefoot, lights dimmed low, her steps soft out of habit.

She peeked into the twins' room first. Cora was drooling into her pillow, one foot kicked dramatically out from under the blanket. Calix had half-rolled onto his stuffed shark, clinging to a slightly worn Bluestreak figure like it was his life support. Next to him, nestled against the crook of his arm, Bumblebee rested.

She smiled, quietly pulling the blanket back up over Calix's shoulders. Neither stirred.

She made sure to check on the other boys in the next room over, where Rowan was sprawled out like a starfish, one arm dangling off the bed, mouth open, soft snores already escaping. Jax had curled into a tight little ball at the edge of his mattress, his hoodie hood still halfway over his head like he'd lost the energy to take it off before sleep claimed him.

She lingered in the doorway for a second longer, smiling softly, before clicking the door shut.

The living room had been reset like a carefully disarmed minefield.

Figurines lined up neatly on the shelf again, except the two currently on bodyguard duty with the twins. The blanket fort was folded and tucked back into the ottoman. Even the slime, the green slime, which had somehow migrated from table to the floor–which she had stepped in earlier—was gone, wiped away like a bad memory. The vacuum had done its rounds, the dishes were stacked and drying in the rack, and the house smelled faintly of lavender and dish soap.

It wasn't perfect. But it was clean. Calmer. A stage set for Act II: Tomorrow.

Rhea finally made it to her room and cracked her door, just in case one of the kids wandered in or if anything that mightbe wrong she'd be able to hear the disturbance.

She peeled off her jeans with a wince, swapped her shirt for an old "TALOS ACADEMY" tee she'd never had the heart to throw out when Nellie loaned it to her during a harder time in her past, and tugged on grey sweatpants like armor against tomorrow's chaos.

Then she flopped onto the bed face-first, groaning into her pillow.

No late-night calls. No crises. Just her and the silence.

She flipped over eventually, tugged the blanket over her chest, and stared up at the ceiling.

Same routine tomorrow. Same noise. Same mess.

But they were safe. Fed. Smiling. Dreaming.

And for tonight... that was enough.

But she had no idea how much her world would change tomorrow, too busy closing her eyes on the last "normal" day of her life.

  >> WARNING: INTERFERENCE PERSISTENT

>> DEFENSE PROTOCOL_09: ☒ TERMINATED

>> EMERGENCY PROTOCOL_10: ❌ UNRESPONSIVE

 

[!!] ALTERATION IMMINENT

// STANDBY FOR IMPACT...

Chapter 3: Prowl and Rhea's Crash Out

Summary:

"Rhea! Prowl crashed when we tried to explain the cartoons!"

U N I V E R S E - 5 5 5 :

A L T E R E D

That weird place between being so close to being awake yet not being able to quite open your eyes or comprehend your surroundings was an odd one.

It's in that moment that you're aware of how soft that blanket is that's half hanging on your body, or that you're slightly sweaty because the low-turning ceiling fan was during very little to cool you but enough to provide white noise.

But you're so far gone that you haven't quite opened your eyes yet, clinging to whatever dream you were having that is slowly being chased away but you're clawing at it to continue. You're starting to forget what happened in it, but you remember it was good. You think...

What was she dreaming about?

Was it something important?

Were those small whispers in her dream or was that in real life?

There was a whisper at the edge of her sleep.

A little voice. Maybe two. Soft as cotton, and almost enough to lure her back to sleep.

"Should we wake her up?"

"I dunno... You wake her up."

"Why me?"

Rhea's brows furrowed as she sank further into her pillow, not entirely awake enough to comprehend the conversation but knowing it was happening. Like when your alarm finds itself in your dreams.

Her room was warm and heavy, cocooned in layers of comfort.

Rhea was a heavy sleeper–always had been. That kind of sleep who could miss a thunderstorm, or someone yelling her name, or the twins hovering over her with nervous hands.

A tiny finger poke her side, but she didn't react.

"Rhea..."

"Mmf. Five more minu...." she slurred, her words trailing off as she sank further back into sleep.

"But Rhea. The Autobots–"

"Jus' watch your cartoons." She flipped over, already drifting again when–

Gunfire.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Another crash following it caused her to jolt upright, eyes wide, disoriented and breath caught in her throat. The twins, the owners of the whispers she realized now, jumped back from the bed, startled by the sudden movement.

"They're fighting." Cora stated, finishing her sentence from earlier.

But Rhea was busy shoving off the sheets, stumbling across the room.

The walls seemed too close, her limbs too heavy, adrenaline not quite catching up to the shock yet.

Second nature threw her into overdrive, throwing open her closet as she dragged her desk chair over. She stepped up, finger fumbling the code to the lockbox issued to every household on base in a cold panic.

When it clocked open, she grabbed the pistol inside. It was heavy, metallic, small, and the TALOS Program stampedclearly into the side. They were standard issue.

Her hands her shaking regardless, never wanting to handle it but would be damned to let any of these kids get hurt by some stupid Deceptico–

Another crash caused her to shoot her head up, only to turn to the twins with her voice low and hoarse. "Stay here. Don't open it for anyone unless it's me or the boys."

"But Rhea–"

"You heard me."

They frowned but listened, Rhea keeping the gun tucked into her side away from them, facing the ground and away from their sight as she left her bedroom.

With her free hand, she closed the door with a quiet click, sealing them in.

She swallowed hard, pulse pounding in her ears, only for a creak slightly down the hall to draw her attention.

Rowan and Jaxon peeked their head into the hallway, their eyes wide despite the sleep still fogging their expression.

"Rhea, what's all that noise?"

"Go to my room. The twins are in there. Lock the door." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for question. Rhea may not have been a soldier, but Nellie had taught her plenty to protect herself and the four kids she was responsible for.

Jaxin blinked in confusion but Rowan's eyes widened further when he noticed what was in her hand.

This was not new to him, and he knew she was serious.

"Go."

He grabbed Jaxon's hand and they scurried down the hall and into Rhea's room where she heard the door latch shut.

Rhea inhaled shakily, trying to slow her breath.

She checked the corner at the top of the stairs as if whatever was causing all the noise would be standing there with a knife, the weapon a strange comfort in her grip despite how cold it felt against her skin. This is what Nellie taught her right?

Hell if she knew. She was only partly listening because she never thought she'd need to defend herself this deep into the base.

Then again, they were in a war with giant robots. Wouldn't they have just crushed her place?

The lack of alarms was... well, alarming. No red lights flashed accompanied by ear-piercing wailing.

Who the hell broke in?

She turned the corner and moved down the stairs, barefoot and utterly silent on the tips of her toes, gun steady in both hands but hearing voices downstairs.

Did Nellie teach her how to use the but of the gun to knock someone out?

Whichever soldier thought it was a bright idea to break in was about to figure out if she remembered how to do it correctly.

But then she heard multiple voices.

Shit.

The voices were distorted, sounding awfully like what she knew that Decepticons spoke–which only confused her more.

Either way, she was ready to go out swinging even if it was against multiple people.

She reached the bottom of the staircase, turned toward the living room, and froze.

I'm still asleep.

Rhea was all but certain because there was no way she was staring at the Transformers figurines walking and talking and fighting.

The living room had become a full-out warzone.

Books atop the shelf they once stood had been scattered, couch pillows scorched, one of them caught aflame, and the figurines–the kids' toys, were moving. Fighting. Shouting.

There was a gas leak. She had to be hallucinating because there was no way she was staring at what was happening.

Rhea was at a standstill, mouth hung open as the screech of metal-on-metal as their tiny foot-tall bodies clashed.

Literal gunfire erupted between them, leaving scorch marks along the walls whenever those getting shot at dodged, a light fixture soon exploding with a fizz, and somewhere in the chaos, she heard the battle cry of Bumblebee tackling Barricade.It sent them both tumbling behind the ottoman.

Three mini jets soared across the room, tiny but very real blasts shooting down on the scene and whizzing past her face.

Then, a voice beside her.

"Holy shit."

Her head snapped to her side, finding Rowan clutching the wooden bat he kept by his bed like it was a holy sword. They were both armed, yet made no move to do anything in their shock.

She resisted the urge to correct his language, instead asking, "What are you doing down here?"

"I wanted to help!" he repeated louder, more determined. Another blast, Skywarp's this time, cracked near her shoulder.

Starscream zipped by again, mouth open in a shrill scream, and this time his wing clipped a bookshelf and he spun directly toward Rhea's head.

Her eyes widened. "DOWN!"

WHACK.

Rowan swung. And thank god Rhea was short.

There was a satisfying crack, a blur of wings, and Starscream flew sideways into the drywall with a dramatic, glitchy squeal before crumpling like a dented soda can.

Everything paused.

Starscream twitched. The Autobots looked. The Decepticons froze.

Rowan blinked, bat still raised, and muttered, "...I can't believe I just did that."

Neither could she.

Suddenly, the clicks and whirrs of their language turned to English.

"Wheeljack! What did you do?!"

"I didn't do anything!"

"'Cause that's believable."

"Why are the fleshies bigger than us all of the sudden?"

"Quick, while the Auto-scum are distracted!"

Rhea set the gun down on the counter, slowly, as the fighting continued. "Okay. Okay okay okay." If she said it enough, maybe this situation would become okay.

"Are they real?" Rowan asked, awe-struck.

"I sure fucking hope not." She panicked, rushing into the kitchen. "Don't repeat that."

She grabbed the nearest pot from dinner the night before, drying on the counter, and filled it up with water from the sink.

When she rushed back into the living room, she marched over the fighting bots to dump water on the fiery pillow, hearing a loud "watch it" when the splash hit a brawling yellow mech.

But now, with only a pot in her hands, she stood in the middle of the chaos unknowing of what the hell to do next.

Her mind could barely grasp the reality of what was happening, let alone come up with a way to fix it.

Across the room, Soundwave was arguing with Prowl in glitchy, mechanical bursts. They were literally debating strategy while elbowing each other in the chassis.

Jazz swung in from the armrest, flipped off a cushion, and drop-kicked Knockout, who shouted, "Hey! This paint job is custom!"

"Coulda fooled me," Jazz grinned mid-air.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

She was definitely having a breakdown.

Elita and Chromia were tag-teaming against Barricade after Bumblebee was taken down, both swearing like exasperated sergeants.

Grimlock, hilariously serious, was stomping after Thundercracker, who threw a pillow at him because his guns proved fruitless against the Dinobot. Then the flier remembered he could literally fly away, and transformed.

"Rhea?" Rowan asked, breathless, bat raised. "I think we need to do something."

"Like... call someone?"

"Who?! Ghostbusters?!"

He had a point.

Then suddenly, clarity.

"The washer!" Rowan blurted. "Put the Decepticons in the washer! If we separate them, they'll calm down and we can figure out what's happening."

"...You're a genius," Rhea said, snapping out of her paralysis.

She pointed at Rowan firmly ."I'm trusting you not to put a hole into the wall with that thing. Let's go."

Starscream tried to rally the 'Cons. "We retreat! Regroup! Regather our forces and–" However, he was also still grounded and recovering from being whacked into a wall a few minutes prior, so he was an easy target.

He was the first one scooped up. Rhea grabbed him mid-lunge, held him at arm's length as he flailed dramatically. "Put me down this INSTANT!"

"Yeah, yeah." Holding the Decepticon that notoriously gave the Talos troops trouble in the field was...surreal. She was still in a bit of denial over the whole situation.

"UNHAND ME, YOU PRIMITIVE–"

She staggered toward the washer, Starscream clawing and thrashing, almost slipping out of her arms twice. His wings knocked into her jaw, his foot smacked her forehead.

"Quit squirming!" she hissed through gritted teeth, prying the washer door open with her foot.

It took effort–serious, gritting-her-teeth effort–to shove him in. He grabbed the washer door frame at the last second with a shriek.

"NO! I AM A COMMANDER! I WILL NOT BE–"

She slammed her shoulder into him.

THUMP. Starscream tumbled inside with a metallic squawk and she slammed the door shut.

One down.

Her next target was a red Decepticon who sprinted across the floor, ducking under a sofa, dodging Autobots like a professional athlete.

"Rowan, left!" she called, and Rowan cut him off, bat swinging wide as a threat as it only clunked against the floor right in front of the small bot.

Knockout skidded to a stop and threw his arms up. "This paint job is a masterpiece, don't you dare."

Rhea snuck up from behind while he was distracted by Rowan. She scooped him up by the waist.

"You scratch it, you pay for it."

"You're lucky I'm not stuffing you in a garbage can," she hissed in frustration, shoving him into the washer.

He resisted, shoving back, foot kicking her wrist. Rowan helped, jabbing his shoulder with the butt of the bat, and Knockout tumbled inside right into Starscream before the flier could escape.

Slam.

Two down.

Next was the blue flier.

Thundercracker flew past, missing half a shot at Ironhide.

Rowan darted out without hesitation, bat low to the ground in one hand, grabbing Thundercracker's wing with the other. He wrestled him sideways, awkwardly, like grappling a heavy duffel bag, and Rhea rushed to his side to help.

Between the two of them, they had to snatch Thundercracker back mid-air the few times he jabbed their fingers and escaped before they bundled him into the washer without much more protest than a frustrated squawk.

Thundercracker's voice echoed inside after he transformed back. "This is undignified!"

Rhea slammed the door and pointed at Rowan, half-laughing, half-panting. "MVP."

Rowan flashed a breathless grin.

The next capture was the one that gave Rhea pause.

Soundwave stood perfectly still across the room, visor pulsing faintly, servos loose at his sides. He wasn't attacking. Wasn't running.

He just watched. Everything.

Creepy. But maybe... useful.

Rhea gave Rowan a glance. "Cover me."

Rowan tightened his grip on the bat, standing ready but not swinging.

She approached slowly, cautiously–like she was trying to grab a stray dog that might bite.

She expected resistance. A last-minute punch. A sound blast.

But Soundwave stayed passive when she reached him. His visor flickered once.

She placed her hands carefully on his arms, bracing for a struggle, but there wasn't one. He let her guide him toward the washer, silent, unnervingly compliant.

Rowan yanked the door open again, holding it steady.

Together, they nudged Soundwave inside, almost respectfully. He folded himself in neatly, saying nothing.

Rowan clicked the door shut.

"...That was weird," Rowan breathed.

"Yup," Rhea said, wide-eyed. "Not thinking about it." She didn't want to think about the possibility he complied for the sake of a bigger plot he was forming.

And last but not least, possibly the hardest saved for last on purpose, was a purple Decepticon that was half-laughing, half-fumbling with his teleport jumps.

He was more than aware that he was now severely outnumbered and had no backup. He had considered going after his trine and the others, but the human with the bat made him weary. No way in the pits did he want to be batted across the room.

He proved to be difficult to catch, but when he finally slipped out, trying to teleport away only to manage to ram right into the wall, Rhea snatched him up.

He let out a high-pitched squawk, flailing, but he was more surprised than actually fighting.

"You can't just–" he started to protest.

But it was too late.

Rowan had already opened the washer, shoving the others back, and allowed Rhea to slip the last con inside.

SLAM.

The washer thudded violently under the collective rage and confusion of six very compact, very pissed-off Decepticons. Well, minus Soundwave.

Rhea leaned against the washer, chest heaving, hair a mess, only to sink down to the floor slowly.

Then came the small footsteps, a lot of them.

They approached the laundry room, which wasn't built for the company, much less for thirteen tiny robots, a rattling washer full of Decepticons, a teenage boy with a baseball bat, and Rhea herself teetering on the edge of a full-blown crisis with all thirteen pairs of glowing blue optics set on her.

The washer behind her thudded again.

Rhea tightened her firsts together to try and keep a grip on her sanity.

Rowan stood beside her, vibrating with barely contained excitement, eyes wide as dinner plates. He looked like he might explode from trying not to shout "THIS IS SO COOL!" at full volume.

Rhea wasn't there yet. She was still stuck on: "Tiny alien robots are now alive and have fought in my house."

Jazz, she recognized, let out a whistle to break the silence amongst the many. "Gotta say, I've seen some wild landings, but wrangling a Decepticon squad into a spin cycle? That's a first. Nice work, darlin'."

Thankfully, she was not allowed a chance to comment on that because the previous argument had ensued once more.

"It was your fault!" Ratchet snapped, whacking Wheeljack across the back of the helm.

"Ow! I'm sorry! Stop!" Wheeljack yelped, ducking another swat.

Rhea blinked.

"Explain it!" Ratchet barked, lifting a wrench from somewhere Rhea definitely didn't want to know about.

"I am!" Wheeljack squeaked, scrambling around Bumblebee for cover. "There must've been a malfunction in the ground bridge I called!"

Whack.

"Ratchet please!" Wheeljack yelped.

"It was close to the Decepticon one by total accident," he insisted. "And–and there was an explosion! A really big one!"

"Well, yeah. We all remember that, Jackie."

"My question is," Elita piped up, "why didn't we just offline in the blast? Why are we in a place where humans are bigger than us?"

"You guys are our toys that came to life!" Rowan grinned like this was the best news.

To them? Not so much.

Meanwhile, Wheeljack casually corrected, "Actually, it seems our sparks were transferred. Not necessarily that we came to life."

Ratchet bonked him again.

"Ow!"

"Uh, is anyone's comms working?" Bluestreak sheepishly asked, and the short amount of silence that followed told her they had attempted...whatever that was.

But that question was met with the shake of their helms.

"Well, it's probably because just our sparks have been transferred to this reality. These are not our real frames, which therefore don't have the same function."

Ratchet suddenly pointed his forearm at Wheeljack, causing him to jump like a frightened cat. Which Ratchet ignored, instead saying, "My scanners still work."

"Warn a mech, Ratch!"

Rowan nudged Rhea's side, grinning wide. "This is awesome."

"No," Rhea said flatly. "Awesome would be me asleep right now. This is insane."

Behind her, the washer rattled again as Starscream shrieked something about cruel imprisonment and future vengeance.

Optimus cleared his throat, stepping forward with the air of a seasoned diplomat who's handled worse than a psychotic laundry room hostage situation.

"I believe," he said calmly, "we should begin with introductions. It may ease tensions." She knew who they were, but she supposed it might give some normality to the insane situation they all found themselves in.

"Easing tensions would be someone explaining how you're all here," Rhea muttered. She had heard Wheeljack's explanation, but it still had so many unknown variables.

The crazy engineer in question opened his intake.

"Without quantum physics," she added sharply.

He closed it again.

"I am Optimus Prime. Leader of the Autobot Resistance." Optimus Prime, tall for his size, gave her a dignified nod before gesturing to the police car, "This is my second in command Prowl."

"My third in command and head of special operations, Jazz." Jazz offered a lopsided salute, the corner of his intake tugging up in a bright grin.

It was then that she noticed that her poor patch job on his leg still remained, leaving him to lean against an indifferent Prowl. She cringed a little, feeling a little bad she didn't actually fix it the night previous.

He motioned toward Ratchet and Wheeljack who had been fighting moments before, rather one-sidedly. "Ratchet is our Chief Medical Officer, and Wheeljack is our Chief Engineer."

She was slowly nodding along, "This might sound a little crazy, but I know who you guys are."

There was a brief flicker of surprise shared amongst the bots in front of her.

Thank god she was sitting down otherwise the height difference would've made this conversation a lot more awkward.

"That's... Grimlock, Chromia, Elita, Ironhide... Weapons specialist, right?"

The red mech seemed to straighten where he stood with his arms crossed grumpily across his chassis, "Correct."

They watched her with curious gazes as she scanned the rest of the bots she hadn't named.

Then her gaze caught on two nearly identical bots standing side-by-side, their red and yellow paint jobs a sharp clash even in the dim light.

"The uh, condiment twins. And... Bluestreak and Bumblebee–"

Sideswipe snorted.

Sunstreaker's scowl deepened into murder.

"What?" he snapped.

She cringed slightly, immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry, I don't remember. That's what I've been calling you to the twins–"

"You don't remember only our designations–"

"You're Sideswipe and Sunstreaker!" Rowan chipped in excitedly, thankfully saving the conversation from turning into a scolding.

Sideswipe gave the kid a cocky two-digit wave.

Sunstreaker scowled like someone had insulted his entire existence just by looking at him.

Rowan muffled a laugh in his sleeve.

The washer thudded again, harder. The sound of metal fists pounding against the drum echoed behind her like a drumbeat of approaching doom.

Rhea's whole body jolted.

Optimus turned slightly, calm but firm. "The Decepticons remain... agitated."

"Agitated? Rhea sputtered, spinning toward him. "Understatement of the year."

Jazz leaned sideways, eyeing the washer thoughtfully. "Bet ya got maybe an hour before Soundwave figures out the latch for the lot of 'em."

"Thanks," Rhea sighed. "Great. Wonderful. I love knowing that."

Her hand found the washer dial unconsciously. She was this close to hitting "PERM PRESS" and hoping for the best.

Then she remembered, turning around with a sigh. "I didn't forget about you." She knew them far better than she knew the Autobots. Because the Autobots were fictitious memories of bots they never got to meet in her world.

The Decepticons, however...

"The Seeker Trine: Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker. Knockout, you're a medic. Barricade. And Soundwave, the communications officer and kinda Megatron's right-hand..." Her voice trailed off as she remembered that the Megatron figure existed in this house... She would've noticed if he was awake but what if he suddenly woke up?

Starscream glared at her, drawing her back to reality.

"Oh, right. You're the Decepticon's Air Commander and second in command." He huffed, but seemed pleased at the correction.

Rowan, meanwhile, knelt down in front of Bumblebee, wide-eyed.

"Are you really Bumblebee?" he whispered.

Bumblebee looked briefly surprised at the question before he grinned at the kid, his doors wiggling behind his back, "Sure am!"

Rowan just about burst from excitement.

All helms snapped toward Bumblebee who looked just as startled.

Ratchet rushed over as Rhea muttered the golden question, "What?"

Ratchet scanned Bumblebee as Bluestreak was first to answer. "Bumblebee can't speak in our world."

"Wait, how does he communicate in your world?" Rowan asked hurriedly.

"Bumblebee's method of communication is through a series of beeps and noises of that sort. We Autobots have learned overtime to understand him and have no issue translating, but..." Prowl trailed off his explanation as all optics and eyes fell on Ratchet reading the scans.

"His voice box was damaged in the war during a battle in Tyger Pax, but it seems to be no issue in this frame he has transported to. My scans are coming up clean, Bumblebee."

The yellow mech in question was in a mix of shock in excitement, wings twitching behind his back, "This... This is great! I can talk!"

"Wait, that means they're from the Transformers: Prime universe!"

"The what now?" Chromia crossed her arms over her chassis, matching the red mech beside her.

Then–

A tiny, tentative creak at the entrance.

Three small heads peeked in from the dark hallway: Cora, Calix, and Jaxon.

Big eyes.

Bare feet.

Ruffled pajamas.

Cora blinked first. "Woah, they're alive!"

Calix grabbed his sister's arm. "Can we keep them?"

"No," Rhea said automatically.

Jazz chuckled.

Rowan looked over his shoulder, beaming. "You guys are not gonna believe this. They're from TFP!"

Rhea turned her attention back to the Autobots, then back to the wide-eyed kids at the door, then to the shaking washer behind her.

She put a hand to her forehead.

"Okay," she muttered to no one in particular. Get it together.

"So let me get this straight," Rhea said, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You're from a different universe. Not just space. Not just another planet. Another. Universe." She resisted mentioning they're from a TV show because that was an entirely different level of absurdity.

Wheeljack nodded in excitement for her answer, confirming she had it correct.

The washer rattled behind her again, punctuating the absurdity.

Rowan and the other kids were practically vibrating with excitement, whispering back and forth like this was the best dream they'd ever had.

Ratchet has made his way over to Jazz, forcing him to sit down so he could begin fixing his leg.

At least someone was here that was capable of such.

Meanwhile, Rhea was sweating bullets, her mind racing with the kind of adult thoughts nobody else seemed concerned about.

People can't know they're here. If anyone finds out–

"Getting you home," she said slowly, trying to ground herself, "is priority number one."

"Agreed," Optimus said.

"How long will it take to figure out a way for you guys to go back?"

They both looked at Wheeljack, who straightened with the attention on him.

"Welllll..." he began, rocking back on his heels.

Rhea narrowed her eyes. "That's not a promising start."

"I mean," he said quickly, "first I gotta find a way to pinpoint where exactly we are, like galactic coordinates but multiversal. Then I need to reverse-engineer a bridge capable of reaching our exact exit point. Which means recalibrating the quantum--"

"Jackie," Jazz cut in sharply from his leaning his back against the dryer. "How long?"

Wheeljack winced. "Uh. Probably... an orbital cycle. Best case, seven to eight orns."

The twins groaned dramatically from where they stood, helms falling back.

"Which is?" Rhea pressed, confused. The groaning was not assuring.

Wheeljack shifted awkwardly. "... I believe in human terminology that translates to about a year of your time. Or seven to eight months. That entirely depends on my supplies and any complications I might run into. "

Jaxon grinned. "You can stay with us!"

Cora gasped. "We get to keep them for a year?!"

"No one is keeping anyone," Rhea said immediately, running a hand through her suddenly way too thick and overstimulating blonde hair like she could physically rub the stress out. "They're not pets. They're... they're guests. Extremely illegal, government-targeted, possibly war-criminal guests." The rest of the Autobots weren't entirely sure of the context of where that came from, but now was not the time to ask.

"You say it like it's a bad thing," Jaxon whispered to Rowan, who nodded very seriously.

Optimus stepped forward again, voice steady.

"I understand your concern," he said gently. "Truly. And we do not wish to endanger or disrupt your lives or cause issues to your world."

Rhea blinked, swallowing around the lump of stress in her throat.

Optimus dipped his helm slightly, respectful but firm.

"But for the time being," he said, "we would be grateful for your hospitality."

Rhea exhaled slowly. Her eyes slid to the kids, sitting wide-eyed and practically glowing with excitement, and then to the Autobots–battered, dented, way too small to be threatening but still... somehow commanding.

Her heart sank.

She didn't have it in her to throw them out. Even if every adult part of her brain screamed it was reckless, but her heart told a different story.

"...Fine," she said finally, voice low.

Rowan let out a fist pump so loud it startled Bumblebee.

"But." Rhea scanned her eyes over the bots, covering all of them. "You follow my rules. You keep a low profile. No fighting. No giant explosions. No bringing the neighbors over to say hi, which I mean keep the volume low so we don't get caught. You guys would be a bit hard to explain."

A few Autobots coughed awkwardly. Jazz looked suspiciously amused.

"And for the love of sanity, no one else can know you're here."

Someone needed to give her a pat on the back for handling this as well as she was, perhaps a medal.

"We understand," Optimus nodded.

The washer behind her banged again. Starscream was shouting something about forming a tribunal to overthrow their captors.

Rhea pinched the bridge of her nose.

"And what about them?" she asked, jerking her thumb toward the washer.

"We can just leave them locked up." Cora suggested.

Calix nodded, "Decepticons are bad!"

Rhea shook her head firmly, shutting that down. "I cannot just leave them in there. It's not right."

"Well..." Sideswipe began but was cut off quickly.

"No."

Optimus' expression sobered even further, thankfully agreeing with her on this. "We must reach a truce," he said. "With the Decepticons."

Rhea stared at him like he'd grown a second helm.

"Yeah, sure," she sighed. "I'll just go whip up a peace treaty with a bunch of angry robot dictators in my washing machine."

Optimus didn't flinch.

"For the safety of your family," he said calmly, "and to protect this world, we must avoid conflict. We will make sure they do not cause any trouble."

Rhea looked at him for a long moment. He was pretty damn calm and unshakable.

The weight of it–the responsibility, the ridiculousness, the whole surreal disaster–crashed down on her.

And still.

She nodded once, tired but firm.

The washer banged again, louder this time. Sounded like Starscream had gotten creative.

Rhea sighed deeply, tilting her head back toward the ceiling.

"How is this my life?"

The kids were practically buzzing out of their skin, crowding the doorway like puppies waiting for permission to bolt. And the moment the bots asked their designations? The excitement skyrocketed.

"I'm Calix!"

"I'm Cora!"

"Rowan."

"Jaxon!"

"We should explain everything to them!" Jaxon said, half-bouncing on his toes. "Like... TV, internet, memes, you know, important stuff!"

"And video games!" Calix added quickly.

"And pizza!" Cora chimed in.

"I wanna see what this Transformers: Prime is all 'bout." Jazz chipped in from where Ratchet was patching up his leg.

"Oh! I wanna know, too!" Bluestreak raised his servo as if a kid in a classroom.

Rhea raised a hand, forestalling the incoming tidal wave of kid-logic. "Fine. But slowly. We're not teaching alien war machines how to speedrun video games in one night."

"Oh, you're fixing Jazz's leg again. Rhea fixed it up last night!"

"Patch-job at best." Ratchet scoffed.

"Hey, I did my best."

"It held up in battle," Jazz winked at her, "Which is good in my books. Ya can fix me up anytime, darlin'."

She was gonna choose to ignore that.

Optimus gave a small nod, his optics glinting in what might have been amusement.

"Alright, go show them." Rhea waved them off.

The kids cheered softly and led the way, practically dragging Bumblebee and Bluestreak like overexcited tour guides. Wheeljack trailed behind them, who was probably more excited about looking for things to begin his project. Grimlock lumbered along more reluctantly, muttering "me Grimlock, go home"

She heard the fading conversation as a few followed behind the group, Sideswipe asked, "So no one is concerned that Arcee, Bulk, Red Alert, and Smokescreen are left on base alone right now?"

Ironhide and Chromia groaned, "Don't remind us."

Ratchet finished up his work, running Jazz through a few exercises to ensure proper functionality before dismissing him.

"And I do not believe we learned your designation."

She blinked, snapping out of the daze that came when she was trying to process her surroundings.

The last bots in the room were the higher-ranking officials, literally those that made the Autobot Resistance run.

"Oh, uh," She scanned her eyes over them, "I'm Rhea."

Elita nodded at her, "It is nice to meet you Rhea."

"We appreciate your hospitality."

"Uh... no problem..."

Prowl, Optimus, Elita, and Ratchet were last to leave the laundry room, conversation low between the higher ranks. Probably planning something.

And just when she thought she was alone, "You comin'?"

Her head snapped back up, surprised by his presence. It was so quiet, minus the washer dilemma behind her, that she didn't realize Jazz was lingering near the doorway, arms folded, glancing back at her with that same easy smirk from earlier.

Rhea nodded at him shortly. "I'll catch up."

He watched her for a moment, seemingly evaluating her behind that smirk before he turned, steps entirely silent against the flooring as he left.

She was left alone with the washer. And the Decepticons banging inside it.

Wonderful.

She turned and crouched, resting her forearms on her knees, staring at the vibrating washer drum like it was a bomb that might go off any second.

"Okay," she muttered under her breath.

She stared at them through the glass of the washer, meeting the furious red optics of the Air Commander.

He immediately launched into a tirade. "YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS HUMILIATION–"

"Shut it, please," Rhea snapped as politely as possible, frowning at him.

He did, blinking in surprise.

She squared her shoulders. Talk to him like you mean it, Rhea.

"Look," she said, voice firm. "You heard them. You were... transported here. Not captured. Not conquered. This--" she gestured vaguely around the laundry room, "isn't some battlefield. You winning a fight here? Would mean nothing back in your war back in your world."

Starscream narrowed his optics suspiciously.

"Me and the kids aren't your enemies here, and the Autobots are willing to have a truce with you all," she continued. "What matters is surviving long enough to get home. Then you can fight your war there..."

Silence. Slight, tense.

Rhea leaned closer to the cracked door. "You want to rebuild your glorious reign? Fine. Can't do that if you're trapped here, fighting over a laundry room. Make a truce. Be smart."

Starscream drew himself up slightly, trying to look dignified despite being stuffed inside a home appliance.

"Hmph," he said at last, voice grandiose. "Very well. I shall allow it."

Rhea held back a snort, but opened the washer door, leaving no glass between them. "No fighting while you're here. This is a... vacation. And keep all disagreements far away from the kids." She lifted her hand up, curling her fingers and leaving out only her pointer.

His optics looked at her finger, then back up at her as if deciding.

"You have my glyph," Starscream intoned dramatically, "we will not engage in battle, and not involve the younglings."

There was a grumble of half-hearted agreement from the others stuffed behind him–Barricade, Knockout, Skywarp, Thundercracker, and Soundwave.

"Good," she said with a small grin as he took her finger into his servo and they gently shook on the truce. "Because if you break it, I'll personally invent a cycle where you live in the spin setting."

Starscream squawked something rude, but she was already walking away, only to hear a call from downstairs.

"Rhea! Prowl crashed when we tried to explain the cartoons!"

Seems he had beat her to it. 

Chapter 4: Misfit Crew and Clues

Summary:

"Guess you're part of our misfit crew now, huh?"

If Rhea had been a little more tired–or a little less paranoid–she might not have noticed it at all.

Jazz was good.

Too good.

It had started sometime mid-morning.

At first, Rhea didn't notice. She was too busy juggling the chaos–kids running wild, Autobots and Decepticons trying to understand human customs while trying to stick to her 'no fighting' rule, and her own frazzled brain screaming at her to act normal while tiny aliens lounged on her furniture.

But eventually...

She picked up on it.

Whenever she went somewhere, moving from room to room, stepping outside to water the sad excuse for a garden, digging through storage for spare blankets, he was there.

Not obvious.

Not in the way.

Just... nearby.

Jazz.

Slinking around like a cat that swore it wasn't stalking a mouse.

She might not have been a professional spy or saboteur like him, but she wasn't blind.

It took her until around noon to realize it wasn't a coincidence that he happened to always just be there, whether it be in her peripheral vision or in conversation.

The others were doing it too, she noticed now.

Not following her, but following the kids.

Cora had Bumblebee. The little yellow bot trailed her like an overprotective golden retriever, ready to pounce at any perceived threat, whether it was a flying bug or a misfired soccer ball. But he always kept a smile on her face, keeping up with her energy and using his newfound voice as much as he could when it came to talking to her.

Calix ended up shadowed by Bluestreak, who chatted nervously anytime Calix so much as wandered more than a few steps from sight. They were still figuring out their dynamic, Calix was a softer-spoken kid but a damn good listener. Thank god for the chatty Bluestreak.

Rowan got Elita One and sometimes Prowl lingered whenever she was not nearby. They were all a quiet presence around one another.

Jaxon somehow landed Ironhide and Chromia, a deadly serious duo who treated the task of handling ADHD like a military operation.

And Rhea?

She was starting to think Jazz was her shadow because he was always nearby. Always watching without looking like he was.

She hadn't caught on until she saw him "fixing" the same loose board on the porch for the third time.

He was following her.

Rhea didn't call him out right away. Part of her was curious of how long he'd keep the act up.

He was subtle. Patient. Pretending not to.

But she noticed.

Every glance. Every small, casual shift closer.

And by the time dinner rolled around, Rhea had made a game of pretending she didn't see him either.

The kitchen still smelled like alfredo sauce and baked bread, faint under the lemony soap.

Rhea scrubbed a pan at the sink, sleeves rolled up, face flushed from the heat of the water. Her mind was still spinning from the day: reality-shattering revelations, makeshift truces, somehow surviving another round of "Prowl crashing" thanks to the explanation of Transformers: Prime.

Rhea deemed it was off the table to watch until everybody adjusted a bit more.

Behind her, light steps padded in that were barely audible over the water.

She hid her smirk as she rinsed the last plate.

"You know," came Jazz's easy voice from the doorway, "if you ever need a second-in-command for kitchen ops, I come highly recommended."

She didn't turn, just reached for another plate. "Mm. You've been following me all day."

Jazz smirked. "No shadowin' here. Just admirin' your... domestic prowess."

She snorted. "Domestic prowess. Big words for somebody loitering in my kitchen."

Jazz approached her feet, and she lowered her hand. Once he gently stepped on, she raised him up so he could stand on the counter beside the sink, avoiding a puddle of water as he watched her.

Sure, he was capable of climbing up, but where was the fun in that?

"You know," she said, flicking a glance his way, "for a guy who's so good at being invisible, you're doing a real lousy job right now."

Jazz chuckled, low and easy, not even pretending to deny it. "Maybe I ain't tryin' to be invisible."

Rhea arched an eyebrow at him, flicking the sink faucet on. "Could've fooled me." She totally failed to realize she had repeated exactly what he had said earlier this morning.

He sauntered a step closer, pretending to examine a coffee mug on the counter like it was some strange alien relic.

"Just makin' sure the important one's still standin'," he said, casual as anything.

She snorted under her breath. "I'm pretty sure I'm not the flight risk you need to worry about."

He grinned, tapping the side of the mug thoughtfully. "Flight risks come in all kinds. Some run without ever leavin' the ground."

Rhea went quiet for half a beat, caught off guard by how close that one landed. She didn't let it show.

Instead, she grabbed a soapy plate and scrubbed harder.

Jazz let the silence linger just long enough before slipping back into that teasing lilt.

He tilted his head, clearly entertained. "Guess you caught me."

She raised an eyebrow, finally glancing at him. "Why?"

Jazz shrugged like it was no big deal. "Somebody's gotta keep an optic on the CO."

She blinked. "...Excuse me?"

"You're runnin' point for those four." He jerked a thumb loosely toward the living room where the kids' laughter echoed faintly. "Makin' the calls. Keepin' the ship steady. That makes you the carrier in the equation."

Rhea stared at him.

Then, against her better judgment, a laugh slipped out. Quick. Warm. And oh so Bright.

Jazz grinned wide at the sound, tucking that little victory away like a prize.

The first real laugh he'd gotten out of her since his arrival.

Rhea shook her head, smirking. "Carrier?" She realized that was their translation for mom.

She wiped her hands on a towel, shaking her head. "I'm twenty-four," she corrected, giving him a mock-glare. "I barely qualify to carry myself."

Jazz's grin sharpened behind his visor. Gotcha.

Another data point he filed away without missing a beat.

"You hide it well," he said easily.

Rhea shrugged, tossing the towel onto the counter.

"I fake it until bedtime," she said, half under her breath. "Then I collapse and pray no one burns the house down while I'm unconscious."

He shifted his weight against the counter, relaxed but still sharp.

"So they ain't yours," he said, pretending it was idle curiosity. "That right?"

"Yeah," Rhea said, stacking dishes. "Only the twins, Calix and Cora, are actually related. Blood siblings. The rest?" She gave a tired, fond little shrug. "Just a bunch of misfits who landed here."

There was no pity in her voice. Only fierce, simple affection.

"They're good kids," she said, almost to herself.

Jazz leaned back a little, arms still folded, studying her like she was something written in a language he almost knew how to read.

"You do a lot for 'em," he said after a beat. "More'n most would."

She shrugged again, as if it was nothing.

"If I don't, who will?"

The words hung there, a bit heavier than the rest despite the lightness she displayed them with.

He filed that answer away too.

Still casually, like it didn't matter, Jazz asked a question he was slowly working toward, "Where're their creators?"

That pause again. Barely half a breath.

She didn't look at him.

"They passed away," she said simply. There was just the quiet, practiced efficiency of someone who'd had to say it before and learned it was easier to say it fast.

Jazz said nothing for a moment.

He could've pushed.

Yet, he didn't.

He knew when to spot a closed door.

She turned the conversation, "Guess you're part of our misfit crew now, huh?"

He had made a career of noticing what people didn't say, and caught onto what was left unsaid immediately.

Jazz merely chuckled, sliding into the rhythm beside her without missing a beat. Grabbing the towel she dropped before and helping her dry the countertop. It was a funny sight given it was ridiculously big for him.

He had been trying to find seams all day, but it was proving a harder task than he thought.

Rhea seemed to be a fortress when she wanted to be.

Every time he thought he'd found a crack, she shifted, smiled, and changed the subject so smoothly it almost made him laugh in frustration.

Jazz, a professional saboteur, realized with a strange mix of admiration and aggravation that this femme was running circles around him without even trying.

And he kind of loved it.

Rhea wiped her hands dry on a towel, half-listening to the movie noise echoing from the living room, when small steps entered the kitchen, bringing with it an annoyed air.

She didn't even have to look to know who it was.

"Hey, Sunshine," she called cheerfully without turning around.

There was a low, barely tolerant huff.

Sunstreaker.

He stepped into the kitchen with the grace of someone deeply offended by every molecule of dust in the air, arms crossed tightly, golden paint glinting under the overhead light.

Sideswipe sauntered in behind him, far less restrained, servos thrown wide like he was arriving at a party.

"We came to see what's cookin'!" Sideswipe announced, as if it wasn't a terrible excuse to be in there seeing as she had already finished dinner with the kids.

Rhea snorted. "Sure you did. Both of you, huh?"

Sunstreaker gave her a look like he was reconsidering the entire idea of breathing or...Er–venting the same air. He shifted sideways, clearly angling to leave already.

Rhea offered him a sweet, pointed smile. "Stay, Buttercup. We're just getting started."

That did it.

With a low growl and a snapped "Shut the frag up." Sunstreaker stomped back toward the doorway like his very survival depended on getting out of range of her voice.

Rhea didn't flinch, didn't even glance at him again, just tossed the dish towel onto the counter and hummed innocently under her breath.

Sideswipe burst out laughing, clapping his servos together once. "Man, he hates the nicknames more than he hates being called Sunny."

"I noticed," Rhea shrugged with an innocent look. "I'll add to Sunny to my list, though."

Jazz, still leaning lazily against the counter, chuckled under his breath. "Gotta say, you're real good at pokin' the bots who don't like bein' poked."

"Part of my charm," Rhea said lightly, flashing him a smirk his way.

Jazz shook his helm, visor flickering with silent amusement.

Sideswipe chose to lean against a cabinet, looking up at them as he began, "So, real talk, we're kinda gettin' low."

Rhea blinked. "Low?"

Jazz tipped his helm, clarifying, "Our energon levels are low."

She frowned slightly. "You guys have... batteries or something?"

Sideswipe snorted. "Nah, it doesn't work like that."

She was almost tempted to ask how it worked. She had seen parts of the shows, knew how Decepticons worked, but for some reason, she was drawing a blank.

As if seeing the confusion, he added, "We need it to refuel. Same way you do." Ohhh.

"Where do you find energon?" Last she checked, she didn't even know where the Decepticons got it... And it's not like they could go borrow some.

"That's the problem. We don't have any in your world." Well, that was a problem, wasn't it?

Jazz nodded along; "Bluestreak's already crashin'. Ratchet's got him in the medbay."

"Wait," She said, turning to Jazz. "I didn't realize I had a medbay in my house?"

Earlier, she had learned that the Autobots had claimed one of the two empty spare rooms as a makeshift "base."

It didn't make much sense at first, as this was supposed to be a truce, a vacation, not a recon mission.

But when she'd asked why, they had asked why there was an unused, fully furnished room in a house that clearly wasn't occupied.

She hadn't answered.

And neither had they.

Mutual understanding in keeping their reasons to themselves.

The Decepticons, naturally, had seized the laundry room. The "brig," as Rhea privately called it now. Fitting, somehow.

"Your habsuite," Jazz clarified smoothly of its location.

"...My what now?"

"Habsuite," he repeated, grinning wider. "Room. I believe the human term is 'room.'"

Rhea narrowed her eyes, though there was a hint of humor behind them. "Oh. Okay, cool. Just dubbing my room as the medbay. Totally not invasive."

Jazz gave a theatrical shrug. "How else's Ratchet supposed to keep an optic on ya?"

"Ratchet is my guardian now?"

"Yep."

"And here I thought it was you."

Jazz chuckled low. "Wha, ya don't like my company?"

She smirked but dodged, rinsing another dish. "Never said that. I'm just not one to bat off underlying intentions."

"Touché... But is it a crime," he added slyly, "to just wanna spend time with a lovely femme like yourself?"

She didn't answer, just flicked water at him without looking over.

Jazz grinned even wider, trying to shake off the water from his frame.

A soft shuffle of feet broke her thoughts.

"Why don't you just let them use your energon, Rhea?" Calix asked quietly as he wandered into the kitchen, Cora trailing behind, Bumblebee atop her shoulder. He seemed to have heard bits of the conversation.

The room froze for half a second.

Sideswipe barked a laugh, snapping his helm at the blonde woman. "You been holding out on us?"

Rhea blinked, genuinely confused. She opted to ignore him, instead focusing on the little boy. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"

"Your coffee. In the mornings. You said you have it 'cause you're really tired. Aren't they tired too?"

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Jazz straightened a little while Bumblebee's already big optics widened.

Sideswipe leaned forward, grinning. "Not a bad idea, kid."

Rhea looked between them, eyebrows raised. "...You're serious?" Was that even...safe?

Jazz chuckled, batting a servo at her. "Don't knock it 'til ya try it. Caffeine's a stimulant. Might patch 'em up temporary-like. Hopefully." Hopefully?

Rhea shook her head slowly, still baffled. "Alright. Go get Ratchet and Optimus. Tell them we might have a new fuel source."

The twins took off like a shot, Bumblebee holding onto Cora's shoulder for dear life.

Rhea turned back to the blue-visored mech, who was looking far too amused for someone about to try coffee for the first time.

"This is gonna end badly," she muttered under her breath.

He only winked. "That's the spirit."

---

Ratchet stood by the counter, arms crossed like an angry librarian, optics flickering rapidly as he muttered to himself and fiddled with a tiny measuring cup he'd dug out of the back of a drawer.

Rhea leaned against the counter, arms folded, amused and exasperated all at once.

It looked like he was preparing a science experiment instead of just handing out a thimble of coffee.

"You'd think we were building a nuclear reactor," she said under her breath.

Jazz, lounging with easy balance against the side of the fridge pressed to the counter, smirked. "For Ratchet, coffee probably is nuclear."

Ratchet shot Jazz a withering look and returned to meticulously adjusting the dose.

"Who's gonna try it out first?" Bumblebee asked, still sitting on Cora's shoulder.

Ratchet insisted the caffeine dosage had to be exact, adjusted for body frame and fuel needs, so that was a good question.

Optimus, ever the noble one, offered first.

"Nope," Sideswipe interrupted quickly. "Big boss can't be the guinea pig. We kinda need him."

"Yeah, no offense," Rhea added, surprisingly agreeing with the red twin, "but if something explodes between Autobots and Decepticons, I'm gonna need him standing. And he's your leader and all."

There was a beat as everyone's gazes slowly turned toward Sideswipe.

"What are you all staring at?"

"You volunteered," Jazz chirped.

"I didn't!"

"You're volunteering now," Rhea said, flashing him a grin.

Sideswipe threw his servos up. "Fine! Fine. But if I offline, I will come back to make you all try coffee next."

Sideswipe groaned, flopping dramatically onto the counter.

Ratchet finally set the tiny cup down in front of him, filled with carefully measured coffee.

Sideswipe eyed it like it might sprout legs and attack him.

"This is dumb," he grumbled but grabbed it anyway.

Everyone watched, the tension thick.

Then, with exaggerated bravado, he knocked it back.

One second... two... three...

Sideswipe physically jerked like someone had hit a launch button, optics wide, digits flexing like he could feel the buzz traveling through his entire system.

"Holy slag," he gasped, looking around wildly. "I can hear COLORS!"

Ratchet frantically started scanning him, optics blazing with panic, but Sideswipe was already bouncing on the balls of his pedes, hyper-energized and practically vibrating.

"It seems to have worked..." Ratchet confirmed, but then he addressed the red mech, "What are your levels now?"

"They shot up to 89%"

"Well. That's one crisis down."

"Nice thinking, Calix!" Bumblebee complimented, causing the boy to brighten.

By the time the excitement settled, Rhea was clapping her hands to get everyone's attention–specifically the kids.

"Okay, okay. Fun science fair experiment is over. It's bedtime."

The twins immediately groaned in unison.

"But we're not tired!" Cora whined.

Calix made a pitiful whine that matched his sisters.

"Long day tomorrow," Rhea said, aiming for sternness but not quite pulling it off because she was smiling.

Sideswipe slid off the counter, landing rather well despite the height of the fall, and stage-whispered to the twins, "She's a tyrant. Save yourselves."

Rhea arched an eyebrow and leaned over, tickling Calix's side. He squealed, wiggling to get away.

"No mercy," she teased, tickling Cora next, who shrieked with laughter and clung to Bumblebee on her shoulder who was desperately holding onto her.

"No survivors," Rhea teased.

The twins dissolved into giggles, Cora clutching at Bumblebee for rescue.

Unfortunately for them, Bumblebee wasn't his usual size so he had no way to rescue them.

"You'll thank me when you're not falling asleep on your cereal tomorrow," Rhea said, ruffling the hair on their heads before telling them to head upstairs.

Getting the twins ready for bed was a practiced dance.

Brushing teeth, finding the right pajamas, wrangling Calix's stuffed rabbit from under her bed, detangling Cora's hair enough that it didn't resemble a bird's nest.

The younger bunch of the mechs were there too, small guardians for the small younglings, or so they call them.

Bumblebee sat criss-cross on Cora's lap, a steady anchor for the girl who was pretending she was not sleepy.

Bluestreak, now fully refueled and back to his fast-talking, chipper self, helped Calix pick a book from the small, slightly battered dresser.

Rhea stood by them, flipping through their limited options.

"Pick one," she said softly.

After a flurry of debate, they chose the sing-along book.

It was a silly story about a little band of travelers making their way home, singing songs to keep from getting lost.

Rhea settled between the twins, the soft glow of the nightlight casting cozy pools of light around them.

Bumblebee and Bluestreak sat close from their respective positions with the twins, watching intently with much curiosity.

She opened the little book and began in a voice so soft it felt like the air itself leaned closer to listen.

She sang the opening lines quietly, her voice soft, but steady and lovely.

"Wherever you wander, wherever you roam,

There's a thread that will tug and will pull you back home."

Cora and Calix sat up a little straighter, waiting for their part.

"Here we are!" they chimed brightly.

Rhea smiled and continued, her voice a warm hug as she flipped the pages gently.

"Across every ocean, across every sky,

There's a song in your heart that will never say goodbye."

The twins giggled softly, proud and ready for their line,

"Here we are!"

Bumblebee's little door wings twitched with happiness, Bluestreak's optics widened with eagerness.

Rhea brushed a strand of hair behind Cora's ear as she sang on.

"Even when you feel lost, even when you're afraid,

The thread we all share can never be frayed.

A whisper, a hum, a pull you can't see–

It's the love that says, 'You belong here with me.'"

Excitedly,

"Here we are!" the twins sang out again, a little softer this time, like they understood the lullaby growing sleepier.

Rhea's voice gentled even more, a true lullaby now.

"Through every world, through every star,

No matter how distant, no matter how far,

Love finds a way, a light in the dark–

You'll find each other, heart to heart."

The twins yawned, cuddling closer under the blankets, not even realizing they were growing more and more tired as their last little chorus came sleepy and small.

"Here we are..."

Rhea closed the book slowly, the softest smile on her lips.

"One more?" Calix begged as if he wasn't about to fall asleep a moment ago.

"Tomorrow, okay?" She smiled softly, smoothing his hair back.

She kissed each of their foreheads tenderly, pulling the blankets up to their chins.

And as she tucked them in, the world outside the window seemed quieter, gentler... Like maybe, just maybe, some invisible string was humming along, tying them all together.

She quietly walked to the door, lingering only to look back and meet the glowing pairs of optics watching her go. To which she gave them a short, appreciative nod. And understood to look after them and that she was grateful for it.

They nodded back at her, and she switched off the light, leaving the door cracked just enough for them to slip out if needed.

By the time she reached Jaxon and Rowan's room, the gentle sleepiness had worn off at the sight of Jaxon bouncing off the walls.

Rowan was already in bed, flipping through a comic book under the muted light.

Jaxon, on the other hand, was a one-kid tornado.

He was showing Ironhide and Chromia his rock collection, his crayon sketches, his half-finished Lego tower–talking so fast he barely paused for breath.

Rhea leaned against the doorframe, exhausted but smiling. "Jaxon."

He kept talking, waving his arms.

"Jaxon," she tried again.

Still yapping away.

Finally, she crossed the room, scooped him up mid-ramble, and spun him around once.

"Whoa!" he yelped, laughing hysterically.

"Crash land!" Rhea called out as she tossed him gently onto the bed in a playful thud. He only laughed harder.

Knowing what she wanted from him, he was quick to protest, "I don't wanna sleep!" The day had been so much fun, and his favorite bots had literally come to life! Sleep was the last thing on his mind.

Rhea only smirked, tapping her chin theatrically.

Then she turned, spotting Ironhide and Chromia watching from the corner.

"Well," she said brightly. "If you don't sleep... Ironhide and Chromia are gonna teach you what happens when you don't listen."

Both bots looked surprised at the way she drew them into this, but Chromia's shock turned into a wicked grin.

Jaxon gasped and dove under his blankets.

"Night!" he chirped.

Rhea laughed quietly, laying a kiss on top of the duvet where his head sat before moving over to Rowan's side of the room.

He was focused on his task at hand, so she merely leaned in and kissed a reluctant Rowan's head gently as he quietly flipped through a comic book.

"Thanks for today," she whispered. "You were very brave."

Rowan shrugged like it was nothing, but the small smile on his face said it mattered.

Rhea nodded to Elita, perched on the dresser with a datapad.

She nodded back, solid and sure. She'd keep watch.

Rhea cracked the door as she left.

With the lights shut off, she cracked the door and retreated from the room.

Her room, however, she practically slinked into, dragging her tired feet every step now that the kids were all safely in bed for the night.

She was too tired to really question how her desk now had a small staircase out of books, boxes, and whatever else they had found, leading up to her plain desk.

Ratchet was perched there, flipping through what looked suspiciously like a dictionary.

Jazz and Prowl stood nearby, stiffening slightly when she walked in.

The conversation they'd been having died when she walked into the room. Which was never assuring, but they seemed to always keep their conversations to themselves when it regarded Autobot business, and she wasn't about to pry.

Ratchet didn't even look up. "You better be preparing for recharge yourself, youngling," he scolded. "Optimal rest is crucial after a strenuous, stressful–"

"I am an adult, not a youngling." Rhea said, cutting him off with a half-smile as she made her way to the light switch. Thank god she had been in her pajamas all day because she didn't want to deal with a hanging dilemma right now.

Ratchet snorted, not impressed with the answer. "I am far older than you."

Jazz leaned against her lamp slightly, glancing between Ratchet fussing at her and Rhea merely joking back.

"With how Ratchet's actin'," he joked, voice low and easy, "feels like he's tryin' to step in where your creators oughta be." It was smooth and teasing, the words harmless on the surface but sliding in just sharp enough to test the waters.

Rhea paused at the light switch, fingers brushing it lightly.

What she didn't see behind her was the sharp looks Jazz received from Prowl and Ratchet for trying to pry for information out of the girl in his usual 'you won't know I got it out of you until later' way.

There was a beat, the tiniest flicker of something in her expression before she smoothed it over with a small, easy smile.

"Well, lucky for Ratchet, I actually enjoy sleeping." she said lightly, voice even. "Mind if I kill the lights?"

Jazz made a little wave with his servo. "Go ahead, lil' lady."

She snorted softly but didn't comment, flipping the switch off.

She flipped the switch off with a soft click, plunging the room into darkness before Ratchet pressed a button on the desk lamp cord. He turned it downward toward the book, so it was enough to be a soft, golden night light.

"And for the record," she added, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, "I'm going to bed because I want to. Not because someone told me to." A pointed glare was centered at Ratchet who didn't even bother to acknowledge her.

Rhea stretched her arms lazily over her head, turning back toward the bed as if she had won as she cast a glance at Jazz and Prowl as they stepped down the makeshift stairs, the blue-visored mech chuckling at her words.

"Sweet dreams, Rhea," Jazz said cheekily as they slipped through the cracked door.

All the doors in the house were now cracked if they weren't off limits, to make it easier for the bots to get around considering they can't reach door knobs.

The room finally settled into silence.

Just the low buzz of the fan. The soft flip of a page from Ratchet at her desk.And the exhaustion pressing down on her chest.

So much had happened today. Too much.

Her body was still in fight-or-flight, even though she knew, logically, she was safe.

Probably.

Maybe.

Live robots from another universe. In her house.

She sighed, shifting under her blanket.

After a long moment, her voice broke the silence as she turned over, facing Ratchet's makeshift perch.

"...Hey, Ratchet?"

He didn't look up. "Recharge."

She huffed. "You're no fun."

"Good," he shot back without missing a beat.

---

Jazz waved a servo lazily at Prowl when he shot him a confused look when strolling past the 'Autobot Base'.

The only explanation he offered was, "I'll be at the officers' meeting in a sec. Gotta check somethin' first."

Prowl didn't argue as he discovered a long time ago that it was illogical to do so when it came to Jazz. Just nodded once, curt and silent, before vanishing into the vacant room with a new purpose.

Jazz made his way down, tiny pedefalls nearly soundless against the steps.

He slipped into the living room, weaving between an abandoned backpack and a half-built Lego tower.

The Autobots not on patrol rotation were awake but quiet elsewhere in respect of the human residence, and direct orders. It was why Grimlock was trying to find a way to entertain himself.

They had made careful note that Decepticons were all tucked away into their own base for the Earth's night cycle.

Jazz casually slipped toward the kitchen with a purpose. Only, halfway there, he caught a hissed argument from the shadows.

"You're a terrible scout," Sunstreaker snapped under his breath.

"You're a worse lookout," Sideswipe fired back, equally low.

Jazz arched a brow ridge and sauntered by without breaking stride.

"Aren't you two supposed to be patrollin'?" he said casually over his shoulder.

Sideswipe called after him, defensive, "We are, we are!"

There was a brief sound of scrambling, and then the low, purring whir of two tiny engines as they peeled away, disappearing out of sight toward the back of the house.

Jazz smirked faintly but didn't stop. If they wanted to argue themselves in circles, that was their problem. It was probably out of boredom while stuck her.

He was far from bored as he reached the kitchen.

It was dark, only a sliver of light from a little scent diffuser plugged in casting faint stripes across the counter.

Jazz leapt, climbing the drawer handles with practiced ease, pulling himself up onto the counter.

He padded lightly across the cool surface, weaving around a salt shaker, a half-empty glass of water, and—

There.

He slipped his servo under a neatly folded towel and pulled what lay beneath out carefully, revealing the folded paper he had both found and hidden.

A forgotten piece of paper by the looks of it.

She'd been cleaning up, overwhelmed, and hadn't realized she'd left it behind for all these guests to find. And Jazz, well, he knew an opportunity when he saw one.

He unfolded it carefully, his optics adjusting quickly to the printed text.

Immediately, his field tightened in focus.

Name: Rhea Stiles.

Screening: Passed.

Categories: Combat evaluation—passed. Intellect—above average. Physical fitness—passed. Drift compatibility—qualified.

Jazz frowned slightly.

Drift compatibility?

What the frag is that?

His optics scanned lower.

The Talos Program.

Talos?

That was new.

His internal mechanisms for just looking it up weren't exactly in full function right now, so he tucked every word into memory with precision honed from countless recon missions.

Passed screening.

Combat-capable.

Fit enough.

Smart enough.

And whatever this drift compatibility thing was... it sounded like a big deal.

And she had just... left this sitting out?

Jazz folded the paper carefully, sliding it back exactly how he'd found it earlier before he slid it under the towel.

He could've taken it. Could've stashed it.

But old habits ran deep. It was practically special ops rule one to leave no sign you were there unless you wanted to be found.

He hopped down from the counter without a sound heading back toward the stairs for the meeting..

But perhaps he should've taken it, because, for once, Sideswipe managed to keep himself quiet for longer than fifteen nano-kliks.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had circled back.

They crouched low behind the half-wall near the kitchen, optics flickering with mischief and curiosity.

They watched Jazz slip upstairs, quiet as a shadow.

Sideswipe gave his brother a pointed look.

Sunstreaker glared back, annoyed but equally intrigued.

Without a word, they crept toward the counter, slipping across the floor with silent steps.

Jazz's mistake wasn't reading the paper. It wasn't even sneaking off to find it.

It was assuming no one else would.

And now, thanks to his little bit of caution, not taking the paper with him, Sideswipe grinned sideways at Sunstreaker.

This was going to be interesting.

Chapter 5: Hakuna Matata

Summary:

"Nothing, what's a motto with you?"

Rhea Stiles was never awake before the sun. In fact, sleeping in was her favorite thing to do–except she had four children to get up.

At exactly 7:10 AM there was a bang on her door right as the alarm sounded beside her bed and she was still struggling to open her eyes.

"Up, youngling! Rowan would not wake you for no reason."

Her eyes snapped open.

Oh, right.

Ratchet was staying in her room.

She was still getting used to the whole... tiny aliens living in her house.

The first thing she did was lay flat on her back, rubbing her palms over her eyes so hard that the splotches of light appeared beneath her lids. It was the best way to somewhat rub the sleep away.

When her hands flopped at her sides, now staring at the ceiling as she relished in the warmth of her blanket, Ratchet's voice chipped in once more. "Any time now."

Rhea sat up with a sigh. "Yeah, yeah. Quit being so bossy." She hadn't had someone telling her what to do like that since, well–

Hm.

She wandered over to her closet, pulling out her outfit for the day.

There was a moment she spared a glance at Ratchet who was more than busy doing god knows what, wondering if she should go to the bathroom to change... But then she remembered they probably didn't care, as they had no care for human anatomy.

That didn't stop her from turning her back to him as she slipped a blue tank top on and shimmied on some black flared leggings. Rhea had decided a long time ago jeans were a "going out" outfit considering she'd rather be comfortable in her own house.

She slipped on some socks and left before Ratchet could nag her about something else. Did the mech ever leave the room? Did he sleep, er–recharge? How often did they recharge anyway?

Rhea peeked into the twins' room, finding Cora chatting away to Bumblebee standing atop her dresser.

"Should I wear this blue shirt? Or the pink one?"

"I think the pink would look pretty on you!"

"But the blue is also pretty."

"You're right. Blue it is."

"Hmm, but pink is also pretty. Hey, if Bluestreak has blue in his name, how come he isn't blue?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"Good idea! I'll wear blue for him."

"No yellow?" Bumblebee teased, just cause, with a big smile on his faceplate.

She gasped dramatically. "You're right!" And then proceeded to dig in her drawers.

Rhea chuckled before continuing her way downstairs, nodding a good morning at Optimus and Elita as they walked past her to their new "base."

Then the smell of something cooking–hopefully not burning–hit her nose the moment she passed the threshold of the bottom of the stairs.

She made a note of Starscream standing by the couch, overseeing the work of Wheeljack, who strolled right by her with a happy, "Morning, Rhea!" She wasn't entirely certain he was smiling behind that battle mask, but his optic told her he was.

"Morning, Wheeljack..." Her brows furrowed as he practically skipped past her, carrying screws that she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know where he got from.

Calix waved at her with a mouthful of cereal at the small dining table just outside the kitchen as Bluestreak yapped away with–at him, stopping briefly to share the same sentiment.

From this vantage point, and thanks to the half-wall separating the kitchen, she could see a head of curls.

"Can we watch Alvin and the Chipmunks while we eat breakfast?" Jaxon suddenly asked, her eyes falling on the boy who was still in his pajamas but eager enough for a movie.

"I wanna watch it too!" Calix added mid-bite of a spoonful of cocoa puffs.

Rhea hesitated for only a second. "Sure. But you need to go get dressed first—you gotta leave for school in a half hour."

She clicked on the TV as he raced up the stairs, selecting the movie they wanted and letting it play before heading toward the kitchen.

Her feet slid across the kitchen floor with the practiced slide of someone who had done this too many times to count. The coffee maker was clicked on and already beginning to trickle a slow pour, the radio quietly playing a random song on the counter, the pan on the stove sizzling with a cartoon of eggs opening beside it on the counter, and Rowan was digging in the cabinets. Grimlock was on the floor looking awfully grumpy as he watched all of this, following Rowan around wherever he stepped.

"Where's the pancake mix?" he asked without looking her way, still looking around.

Rhea hummed as she walked toward the coffee maker, noting Soundwave standing on the counter by the stove, watching Rowan carefully. But the moment she made her appearance, he turned, jumped down, and left the kitchen. Weird...

"Hm, we're probably out. We're getting groceries today, though." She carefully began to pour coffee into all the little cups made of caps, measuring cups, tiny cups, and anything alike. Ratchet had made her label all of it, their names scribbled on the sides.

The cabinet closed. "I was gonna make you birthday pancakes."

Right. Birthday. How had the kid remembered and not her?

"Me Grimlock no get 'birthday'"

Opting to change the subject, she quirked a brow, "You know, I don't really like pancakes..."

"I know. It was for my benefit."

Rhea chuckled, casting a glance his way as he went back to taking a spatula to the eggs before her attention fell back onto pouring.

The brown liquid, still hot and producing steam, needed to be poured at a specific line for each of them given they all needed a different amount of caffeine intake.

Rhea just found it a tad funny that all 19 tiny makeshift cups sat along the counter by the coffee maker like a bunch of kids at a sleepover needing to remember whose goodie bag was whose. It wasn't too far off, really.

Only when their cups were poured did she yell out for them to come get some before pulling out her favorite mug, a cow themed one with little pegs on the bottom like utters, and pour herself some. Only she made sure to drown hers in creamer.

With a coffee mug in one hand and a few plates stacked in the other, she walked over to Rowan's side. He scooped a portion of eggs onto each plate as she set them out.

The Autobots were already trickling in. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had made themselves known by their usual loud entry: a mix of annoyed stomping (Sunstreaker) and dramatic commentary (Sideswipe). They were following a rather annoyed Ironhide who was one second away from punching Sideswipe.

Barricade was already at the counter, in the farthest corner and sipping his coffee with no intention to make small talk.

When he got in there? She didn't know. But hey, she was just grateful he was following the rule of keeping the cups at the table or in the kitchen so they didn't get lost.

She and Rowan balanced the plates between themselves, and her mug, and made their way out of the kitchen, carefully stepping over Knockout who sulked in to get his ration while muttering something about there being no polish in this place.

They set the plates down, Rhea calling out, "Cora! Come down here!"

Rhea spotted the empty bowl and spoon sitting where Calix once was as Rowan slid into a seat, Grimlock already stomping at his feet.

She spotted the boys sitting in front of the couch watching the movie, even Thundercracker and Bluestreak standing on the tiny coffee table watching intently.

"Jaxon, come eat," she said, making sure each plate had a fork before adding, "Calix, what do we do with our dishes when we're done eating?"

Jaxon was already on his way over but was passed by Calix as he ran over to collect his bowl, "Forgot, sorry."

"You're okay, sweetie." She smiled at him as he ran to put his dish in the kitchen sink only to jump as a purple figure popped into the air via a poorly-aimed warp—and promptly slammed sideways into the wall.

"Fraggin'-" Skywarp crumbled to the floor, holding his helm.

"You okay?" Rhea asked automatically, coming around the table to check on him.

Skywarp blinked, staring at her as if the last thing he expected was concern. But the look was gone before she could fully register it.

"A-Ok!"

"You sure?" She crouched down, scanning him over.

A pause before he brushed it all off, rolling his shoulders as he stood upright. "...Yeah."

Thundercracker, from the living room, cut in, "It happens more than you think."

His brother scowled at him. "It does not."

"Denial."

Skywarp warped over to give him a piece of his mind, meanwhile, Rhea shook her head and returned to the table.

She collapsed into her chair, immediately going for a sip of her coffee–okay, maybe a chug–as Cora padded downstairs with Bumblebee in her hands.

She gently set him on the table, excitedly sliding into her chair to join everyone in indulging in eggs.

But the younger kids were done so fast she barely had a chance to start eating her eggs, their excitement to watch the movie driving them to hurry up and finish, wash off their dishes, and run to the living room to get what TV time they could before school.

It left only Rhea, Rowan, and Grimlock at their feet, left at the table.

"How old are you again?" Rowan asked, scooping a mouthful of eggs into his mouth.

"Twenty-five, now." She replied easily, not even realizing how hungry she was until there were eggs in her mouth.

"So when do you need to get a cane?" he joked.

Rhea lolled her head over to glare at him, which only was successful in his shit-eating grin growing bigger.

She shook her head and took another bite, chewing before–crunch.

Her brows furrowed, using two of her fingers to pull out... "Shell."

Rowan shrugged, "Calcium." Just for good measure, he stuffed more eggs in his mouth and smiled big, showing off his food.

She rolled her eyes with a chuckle. "Dork."

"What's dorky is your socks."

Her lips pursed, glancing under the table at her feet before deciding to lift a single foot up. She teasingly shoved her foot toward his side. "What? You don't like my dino themed socks?" The green sock with little dinosaurs on it was shovedaway, laughter falling from his lips.

She set her foot back down, laughing with him before a voice chirped from the stairs, "What's this about socks? What are socks, anyway?"

They both looked over to see Jazz jumping down the steps before strolling over.

Instead of answering, she indirectly asked, "I was wondering where my shadow has been."

"Aw, he loves hanging out with you." Rowan teased, just to poke at her.

"He's dependent on me to complete his babysitting mission, it's not the same." she teased back.

He grinned as usual at them, deciding to answer the question of where he and those in charge have been this morning. "Just been in a meetin' with the other officers. Borin' stuff."

She opted to avoid asking what they could possibly be having a meeting about given that everything is kind of at a stand-still.

Instead, she sipped her coffee as he climbed up a chair and to the table.

Once he was at the top, he turned the conversation back. "Soo... socks?"

Rowan jumped in. "Rhea likes to wear weird socks. I swear, every day she wears a different pair. I don't know where she keeps them all."

Jazz merely grinned, turning to her in wonder. His silence told her that he was waiting for her to show these "socks."

So, she raised a single foot showing off the dino theme before setting her foot back down.

"Me, Grimlock, on sock."

Everybody looked down to see him staring intently at her feet, specifically her socks.

She kind of forgot he was there.

"Yep, that's the Earth version of you." Rowan replied simply, scooping up some more eggs into his mouth.

"Good morning, sector 9." Her eyes trailed over to the radio sitting on the edge of the halfway that split this room from the kitchen when the music changed, no doubt did it catch the attention of her guests, "Scheduled maintenance runs are on track."

She stood up, taking her now empty plate on her way over.

"If you're headed past the south wing, watch for rerouted foot traffic near the loading bay. And as always–"

She shut the radio off promptly, turning as if it was nothing. "Alright, I hope you guys are ready to go!" It was addressing the whole house.

"I'm still eating my egg shells."

"You've got ten minutes."

Rhea turned around to head back into the kitchen.

"Your shirt is inside out."

She stopped, looking down at her shirt only to notice the seams on the outside. Clearly, she had been too distracted by debating if it was weird to change in front of Cybertronians to notice.

"Dammit." The girl sighed but kept walking into the kitchen, adding fixing her shirt to her list of things to do today.

Rowan laughed, stabbing his fork into what was left of his eggs. Jazz shook his helm a little, chuckling, "She's losing it."

When Rhea did return, all the kids were upstairs getting their backpacks and shoes on, and, surprisingly enough, many of the bots were now watching the movie.

Skywarp, perched on the back of the sofa like an unholy gargoyle, tilted his helm slightly as the chipmunks broke into song again. "What species are those?" he asked, not looking away.

"They're chipmunks," Rhea answered, amused.

Sideswipe snorted. "That's not real. Nothing that small makes that much noise."

"Chipmunks are real. They're a type of rodent." Rodent that had heard of, but that was because of an incident on base back in their own universe.

"You have talking, singing rodents?"

"These ones are fictional," Rhea clarified, returning to her coffee. "It's a movie." She lifted the edge to her lips, not even caring that her half-finished coffee was now cold. Caffeine was caffeine.

Bluestreak narrowed his optics. "They look very real."

"It's called CGI. It's computer-made. Visual effects. They're not actual animals. Chipmunks don't talk or wear hoodies."

"...Shame," Skywarp muttered, leaning forward slightly as the music picked up. "This music isn't bad."

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "You're into early 2000s squeaky autotune?"

"I've heard worse."

Sideswipe, meanwhile, was glued to the screen, bobbing his helm slightly, his optics squinted with focus. "They're so weird-looking. But they got rhythm."

"You don't even know the song," Rhea pointed out.

"Yeah," he said, tapping his pede. "But I can feel it."

Jazz was still perched on the countertop, sipping from a sugar-rimmed espresso cup like this was a jazz café and not a breakfast disaster zone.

He watched Rhea navigate the chaos with something between admiration and amusement.

Her tilted his helm toward the stairs where he watched Rowan rush by awfully suspiciously from the top, his tuned hearing telling him he was in a room he wasn't supposed to be. Especially given Ratchet's questions.

But he was promptly distracted by the room rocketing up by 10 degrees. Not in temperature, but rather unspoken tension.

Sunstreaker didn't announce himself when he finished his coffee in the kitchen. He just appeared, scowling as if existing in a human's house was some kind of penance. Which it probably was to him.

"You missed the eggs," Rhea said sweetly as he walked past the table.

"I don't eat fleshy fuel," he muttered as if she was dumb, brushing imaginary dust from his gleaming arm.

"You don't eat at all," she pointed out. "But I can make you some more coffee if you're still feeling run-down, Sunny-D." It was a jab at something she had noticed rather quickly. He and Knockout cared a lot about how they looked.

Sideswipe choked on air while Skywarp barked out a laugh.

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed into twin daggers.

"Quit it with the fragging nicknames," he said, icily.

Rhea smiled, all teeth, even if her words didn't reflect it. "Quit the attitude first."

He growled low in his throat and stormed upstairs, muttering something in Cybertronian that was probably very rude.

The room was quiet for a beat as she disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, the sound of running water telling them she was washing dishes.

A low whistle came from Jazz. "Yeesh, they do not like each other, do they?"

"Which is strange because she seems to like everybody." Thundercracker noted from where he had been silent in the living room. He didn't seem to say much otherwise.

Skywarp turned with a mock serious nod toward his wingmate. "She even likes you, TC."

Thundercracker didn't move. Didn't even look at him. Just lifted one arm and smacked Skywarp in the back of the helm without a word.

Skywarp laughed, rubbing his helm. "Okay, okay! I'm just saying."

"He's gonna try to kill her one of these times," Bluestreak said as if in fear for her life, shaking his helm.

"Should we make a chart?" Wheeljack offered, though no one realized he had overheard any of it from where he was working. "Days since Sunstreaker's last verbal meltdown from a nickname?"

"It wouldn't get past one," Bumblebee vented a sigh.

Rhea snorted at whatever bits of the conversation she had picked up upon shutting off the water, and walking back into the living room. "Alright, school crew! Let's go!"

Footsteps came thundering down the stairs, Jazz noting that Rowan was last, a few seconds later than the rest. But he didn't say anything, merely watching as she opened the front door and waved them off, even some of his comrades getting a goodbye in.

"Are you not taking them there?" Bluestreak asked out of pure curiosity, only to quickly add his explanation as to why he asked it in the first place, "I only ask 'cause Bee, Bulk, and Arcee take their charges to school and pick them up and it seems to be a human custom to have an adult–"

"I don't need to," Rhea cut in politely as she closed the front door. "It's just around the corner."

"I see, that makes sense then."

She shot a wink in his direction before walking away from the door and past the TV, the house now feeling strangely quiet.

Well, maybe to the bots.

Just having them here and not just her own company filled that silence.

She'd say less chaotic, but that wasn't entirely true either.

But, Rhea, finally able to sit down again, flopped into a chair beside where she left Jazz and Grimlock, pulling her almost empty coffee closer with a sigh. She could care less that it was now room temperature when she was currently fighting back a yawn.

Jazz stood on the table near her elbow–small, plastic, and somehow still smug. His arms were folded like he was surveying a battlefield, though the battlefield today was just a half-crumbed kitchen and a woman trying to survive the morning.

"So. Twenty-five?" he said casually, his voice bright with amusement.

Rhea paused mid-sip, one brow lifting as she glanced down at him. "You heard that, huh?"

He didn't deny it. "Just got good audio receptors, darlin'."

She huffed a faint breath through her nose and set the now empty mug down. "It's not a big deal."

He tilted his head. "Birthday, huh? That like a creation day or somethin'?"

"More or less." She shrugged, looking past him. "But I haven't celebrated it in a long time."

Jazz's grin softened just slightly. "Why not?"

Her hand wrapped around the mug again despite it being empty, just instinctively needing to use her hands. "Just don't see the point. It's another day. That's all."

Before the silence could stretch too far, Witch Doctor came on during the movie, it was instant chaos.

Sideswipe gasped. "Okay. THIS. THIS is it."

Rhea exhaled–part sigh, part relief–and stood, scooping her mug off the table to take it to the sink.

Jazz didn't move, just watched her go with a quiet look that didn't quite match his usual spark.

When she returned, she found very interested bots bobbing helms to the music with their optics stuck to the screen. Except Sideswipe, who was openly dancing away.

"You don't even know this song either." She smiled, amused at the sight.

"I don't need to," he said confidently. "I know greatness when I hear it."

He spun on the tile floor, skidding slightly as he tried to match the beat.

Skywarp did a jagged teleport-teleport-teleport move, blinking between spots in rhythm.

"You two know this isn't a dance battle, right?" Jazz asked, watching them like they were a comedy special. To be fair,they were a mess.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever, mister dancer." Sideswipe batted a servo at him.

Jazz laughed, steady and amused, while Rhea watched the spectacle from the table.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Jazz's optics flicked down, craning just slightly to see under the table to see her foot tapping faintly to the beat.

He tilted his helm at her as he straightened, noticing how her lips moved, just barely–mouthing the words, keeping time with the chipmunks.

"You know the song," he said with a grin, and she immediately assumed he was teasing her.

Rhea blinked, then gave him a look. "And?"

"You clearly know it, so do us both a favor and out dance him, hm?"

"I believe Sides and Warp are giving us enough of a show. 'Sides, aren' you the dance master?"

Sideswipe whipped around, pointing dramatically. "You're just scared I'm better!"

Rhea snorted. "One of these days, I'll whip out Just Dance and end you."

Bumblebee looked over, chuckling. "I would pay to see that."

"You don't have any credits," Prowl called from the stairs, where no one had noticed him sitting with a data pad.

"I have enthusiasm," Bee replied.

Jazz leaned closer to Rhea, tapping his heel in time with the beat. "So, what's stoppin' you?"

"Dignity, pride, and a little thing called sanity."

Jazz smirked. "Excuses, excuses."

She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself.

The movie kept playing, chipmunks still chirping, bots still dancing.

Then there were three sharp knocks at the front door.

She froze.

Jazz's visored gaze flicked toward her.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

If that was the kids, they would've burst in.

The entire room, even if they were occupied with other tasks, looked at her and the front door in a mix of surprise and confusion.

Rhea hissed through her teeth and sprang to her feet. "Upstairs. Now. Everyone. Go."

The whole room sprung into action as if this was a sort of war order–which it might as well have been. Who knows what would happen if it got out that they were here?

Skywarp teleported to the stairs mid-step and immediately cringed when his chassis hit the edge a little too harshly. "Frag!" He warped again, this time to the laundry room with his brothers zooming behind them in their alt modes.

Bluestreak darted with Bumblebee, a whisper of "who do you think is there?" as he went.

She couldn't care to see where the rest had gone, doing her best to gain her composure before answering the door only to see the door knob turning and she was staring optic-to-eye with Sideswipe, both clearly panicking.

In a hurry, she harshly whispered to him, "Go limp!"

"What?"

"Pretend to be a toy!"

"No, that's humiliating–"

She gave him the look.

Sideswipe vented, throwing his helm back but froze on the table, arms limp at his sides, surprisingly still, as the door opened.

Rhea took a breath, smoothed her hair, and opened the door with a smile she had no energy for just in time to see Nellie walk in looking rather confused.

"Nellie!" she greeted. "Hi. You're early."

Nellie, arms full of a canvas tote and wearing her usual camo pants and fitted black Talos long sleeve, stepped inside without waiting for permission.

"You didn't answer your phone. Or the door..."

"Sorry, movie. Kid stuff." The answer was quick, and she was doing her best to not look out of breath.

Her eyes immediately drifted toward the TV where the film was still playing, much to Skywarp and Sideswipe's dismay. "Alvin and the Chipmunks?"

If he tilted his optics just right, Sideswipe could keep watching, but something much more interesting was happening right in front of him. Who was he to pass a chance to figure out more about the girl who avoided every question about herself and where they resided?

Rhea flushed. "The kids had it on."

Nellie raised a brow and set the heavy bag on the counter. "Right."

She pulled out a carton of eggs, a few apples, and a giant container of peanut butter. "Here. You were low. Also got the cereal Calix likes."

Rhea opened her mouth to thank her when Nellie cut in with a too-casual tone.

"So," she said, "have you made your decision yet?"

Rhea blinked, genuinely confused. "What?"

"The letter," Nellie clarified with a sigh, pulling out a jug of oat milk. "The Talos Program? You passed everything. Drift compatibility, physicals, psych screening..."

Rhea stiffened, the conversation they had hitting her like being dunked in a tub of cold water. Her eyes darted to the folded paper tucked under the kitchen towel. The one she'd meant to move.

Her voice came out too tight. "I haven't decided yet, I've been a bit... busy." Housing a bunch of tiny aliens, some of which already exist in this world and kill us but totally fine. We're doing great at acting normal.

Nellie didn't seem to hear her. Or maybe she just didn't care.

"They don't offer placements like that anymore. You're one of twelve candidates across the entire region. It's field work, but it's advanced placement–real-time mech compatibility testing. It's everything you said you wanted last year."

Rhea's hands curled slightly on the countertop in the kitchen. You wanted.

But perhaps she had gotten it mixed up somewhere along the way. Remembered her words wrong in the excitement of potentially having Rhea as her co-pilot.

That fact was brushed aside, her biggest concern being the amount of information she was spilling when Sideswipe was standing right there. And she learned very quickly he didn't know how to keep anything to himself.

"Don't talk about this here," she said, voice quieting to a whisper. Maybe it would be harder for him to hear. How good was a Cybertonian's hearing?

"Why are we whispering?" Nellie whispered back before laughing lightly, voice returning to normal. "Rhea. The kids aren't even here."

Rhea sighed, having no explanation, just dropping her head as Nellie unloaded more groceries only to turn in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Oh, the kids left their toys out? Marshal Rhea relaxing a bit on putting things away?" The older girl joked, not even noticing the way the blonde stiffened as she walked over to the coffee table and to the stiff, frozen Sideswipe propped like a very well-detailed action figure near a coffee ring and a half-finished coloring page.

Before Rhea could stop her, she picked Sideswipe up.

He made the faintest sound of indignation.

Rhea coughed loudly to cover it, which earned her a weird look.

"Yeah," she said, stepping forward quickly. "Uh, teaching a bit of independence." She didn't act like a marshal did she?

Now she was overthinking simple things.

"This guy is kinda cool. Lot less scary than the mechs I've seen." Nellie noted, turning him in her hands. "What is this, resin?"

"Don't fuel his ego." Rhea muttered under her breath without thinking about it.

"What?"

Her head shot up. "Hm?"

She prayed that she didn't continue to ask more, deciding to blurt out, "Limited edition. Mind if I..." She reached a hand out.

Instead of handing him to her, Nellie set Sideswipe down on the table with a little thunk, harder than necessary. Sideswipe's optic narrowed at her for just a second while she wasn't looking before returning to normal.

Rhea gave him the do not move glare as her friend went back to her groceries.

"I'm just saying, if you don't want this opportunity, I'll tell Dr. Hadley. But I really think you should consider it. You're meant for more than running day care and hiding from your old life."

There was a beat of silence, the air feeling tense.

Too many mechs listening, too much information spilled.

Rhea's jaw tightened. "I'm not hiding."

"Mm," Nellie hummed, which was worse than arguing.

She packed the last of the fruit into a bowl. "Just think about it, okay?"

Rhea nodded quickly, just happy the conversation and pressure was over. "Thanks. I will."

Nellie smiled and kissed her cheek before passing her. "Don't let yourself rot in here. I'm serious."

... Rotting?

Door closed.

Lock turned.

The silence held for about two seconds before Sideswipe moved.

He stretched like someone waking up from a nap. "She's got a grip." Then he turned toward the blonde human girl, dermas stretching into a smug grin, "So, I'm limited edition to you, sweet stuff?"

"More like your lifespan is suddenly very limited." immediately, jabbing a finger in his direction.

"I said nothing!"

"You blinked!"

"I panicked! You try being thrown down like that."

"Believe me, I have! So watch yourself!"

Rhea found herself stomping toward the kitchen with an exhausted huff and offering no explanation for that last comment, needing to put the groceries away and maybe just looking for five minutes of quiet. Her day had barely begun and she already had a headache.

Jazz was on his way back upstairs, taking the steps with the kind of weightless ease only someone who never actually made a sound could manage.

He paused at the corner, just in time to see the tail end of Prowl's patience being exercised in the form of one firm hand on the back of Sideswipe's neck, dragging him bodily toward the brig–the laundry room, which the Decepticons left with a huff. The red mech didn't resist in any other way than various whiney complaints, probably because resisting would've just made it worse, but the gleam in his optics as he passed Jazz said he'd do it all again for the story.

Because yeah, Jazz had seen the whole thing too. Every word of that conversation with Nellie, every flicker of guilt, tension, and carefully controlled panic that crossed Rhea's face when too much truth started slipping into the air like steam from a boiling pot.

He'd been perched quiet as a shadow on the stairs, listening–not because he meant to spy, not really–but because it was a habit of his to know everything and anything he could get his servos on. Because instincts honed in a thousand battlefields told him when something important was being said. And what he heard?

It was important.

He filed it all away like he always did, tucked into the back compartments of his processor. A letter. A program. The Talos initiative. Field work. Drift compatibility. But something else didn't sit right.

"You're meant for more than running day care and hiding from your old life."

Jazz had replayed that line in his processors twice already, maybe three times now as he ascended the stairs.

Nellie had said it like a fact, like Rhea had stalled out.

But from where Jazz was standing–metaphorically and literally–it didn't look like rot.

It looked like someone who got up every day and made breakfast for four chaotic younglings. Someone who remembered who liked eggs and who didn't–Calix. Someone who tucked them into bed and picked up their toys and sang them their favorite stories until they fell asleep. From what he had seen in such a short time, there wasn't anything bitter. Never resentment. Not once.

Rotting? That girl didn't look like she was rotting.

She looked like she was holding the world together with spit and coffee and a stubborn kind of love that he hadn't seen in a long, long time. She clearly loved those kids and there was no denying it.

Still, Jazz knew better than to draw conclusions without all the pieces. There was a gap between what Nellie believed and what Rhea chose. Between the past and whatever she was doing now. He didn't know which parts were which. Not yet.

But he'd find out.

He always did.

---

The house had finally begun to settle.

The chaos of bedtime rituals buzzed in pockets–down the hall, in the bathroom, from behind cracked doors where little voices bickered over whose toothbrush was whose. The bots were scattered, helping with showers, pajamas, locating stuffed animals that had somehow migrated away from beds.

And Rhea?

She had done her part.

She collapsed onto the couch with a soft groan, sinking into the cushions like a stone dropped into deep water. Her head lolled back against the cushion, eyes closed.

For once, she didn't care who was where, or what nonsense was being cooked up upstairs. If no one was actively screaming or breaking something, she considered that a win.

Across from her on the coffee table, Elita sat with one knee tucked under herself, poised and elegant despite the exhaustion in her optics. Beside her, Optimus Prime stood tall as ever, arms crossed loosely as he and Jazz held a quiet conversation, their voices low and respectful in the stillness. To be fair, they were here before she entered the room.

Elita offered a gentle smile. "You look tired."

"That obvious?"

Optimus turned slightly, speaking rather sincerely. "You did a great deal today. You've earned some rest. It has not been easy with our sudden arrival, to which I thank you again for your patience for."

That earned a soft chuckle from her, though it lacked the strength to be anything more than amused air. "Thanks, Prime."

Elita grinned. "Careful. You know what happens when the one in charge burns out."

Rhea gave a small laugh at that, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah, yeah. Noted."

Jazz, beside Optimus, offered her a subtle wink, but before the moment could stretch too far into comfort, Rhea's gaze shifted toward the stairs.

She hadn't heard them, but somehow she always knew–the faintest padding of socked feet, the shift in the air.

Her eyes were already turned toward the stairs when four little heads peeked over the railing like raccoons. "What's up, guys?"

Cora was the first to answer, too excited to contain herself. "We got you a present!" They snapped their heads at her for telling the blonde the surprise.

Rhea blinked, sitting up straighter despite her aching limbs. "You got me a present?" she asked in mock surprise, playing into their energy.

Calix beamed. "Yup! For your birthday!"

"We couldn't buy anything, so we made it," Jaxon added, holding something behind his back.

"Crafted gifts are the best kind of gifts."

They descended the stairs in a flurry, all talking over each other as they reached her. Then he held up a carefully folded construction paper card, glitter glue still drying. It had big, uneven letters that read "TO RHEA (THE BEST ONE)" in pink and green. All over it were scribbled drawings of the whole house with her in the center, surrounded by them and their newest addition–tiny Cybertonians. Tiny hearts were sprinkled across the page.

Squeezed in on the bottom were the words: "Thanks for caring for all of us!"

"We know that you keep all the birthday wishes for us to spend when our birthdays come around, but we wanted to give this anyway!" Cora explained in excitement.

Rhea laughed softly, briefly remembering the excuse she gave when they asked why she didn't celebrate, accepting their gift with genuine warmth. "Thank you. I love it."

"Can we watch a movie for your birthday?" Calix asked suddenly, and she noticed they were all already bouncing on their toes. "Before bed?"

Clearly the request was more for their benefit, but she was willing to let it slide.

She smirked. "Uh-huh. Go grab your blankets and pillows."

"Can the bots watch with us, too?!"

"Sure but you have to ask the bots first if they want to."

"Okay!" they chorused before darting back upstairs like a stampede of elephants.

All except Rowan.

He stayed behind, his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. Without saying anything, he pulled out a small, square box and handed it to her.

Rhea eyed him, suspicious. "What's this?"

"Just open it."

She did so slowly and carefully.

And when she spotted what was inside, her breath caught.

It was her music box, a deep red–worn from the years–with silver accents

The old, worn one she thought had been broken beyond repair–its hinge cracked, the crank refusing to turn. Now it gleamed softly under the living room light, still chipped, still aged, but whole.

She looked at the little music box in disbelief. "Rowan..." she breathed, speechless.

"Fixed it for you," he said simply.

Jazz, nearby, stopped mid-sentence with Optimus upon noticing the change in conversation.

Rhea turned the key and opened the lid.

The familiar, delicate melody rang out–thin, but clear. Inside, the little dancer twirled in slow, mechanical circles.

The room seemed to pause, air thick with something unspoken. Her fingers trembled slightly.

She was smiling, yes, but her eyes shimmered, locked on the spinning figure like she'd been caught in a memory she hadn't prepared for.

Jazz didn't move, but his processor spun.

That's why he was in her room this morning.

But as the melody played, he noticed something tucked beneath the silk lining–a piece of paper, folded and worn like it had been opened and closed hundreds of times.

His curiosity sparked, but he didn't bring it up. Not now. He filed the information away for later.

"Where'd you get the money for this?" Rhea asked, voice still thick.

"Drugs. I sell hardcore drugs."

Optimus' head turned slightly, optics narrowing.

Rhea barked a laugh as Rowan was quick to add, "Kidding... I'm kidding."

Once Optimus relaxed, fathoming the human joke, he turned back to her. "It was only twenty bucks. I stole it from your wallet."

She gave him a long, unimpressed look.

"I could've taken sixty," he said, lifting a finger. "But I put the change back. I'm an honest thief."

Rhea shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth.

"'Sides," he said, "it's the thought that counts. And you were never gonna do it yourself."

There was a pause. A long one.

Then softly, she murmured, "Thank you. This means a lot." Rowan brightened at that.

She closed the lid, the melody fading, and set the box gently on the table with her other gift.

Just in time for the herd to return.

The kids thundered down the stairs, arms full of pillows, blankets dragging behind them like capes. Each had their respective bot in tow.

But, apparently, word had spread. They were all making their way into the living room for this "family movie night."

The house, for one quiet moment, felt full of something warm.

Rhea just smiled.

From Jazz's spot at the head of the couch, it was one hell of a sight.

The living room had been turned into a full-blown pillow fort campground, blankets piled thick on the floor where the kids had declared movie night law. One by one, the mechs had trickled in–some confused, some reluctant, and a few (Sideswipe and Bumblebee) way too excited about this whole ordeal. And somehow, they were all here.

Except Ratchet.

Rhea, half-buried under a blanket, lifted her head just enough to grumble, "Someone go get Ratchet. He can't be the onlyone missing movie night."

Jaxon had set up camp right in front of the couch by Rhea's head, the coffee table in the way of the spot where Rowan was. The twins had set up in front of it Pillows were stacked, blankets laid out, and snacks she had let them have even though they had dinner less than an hour ago. What was a movie without popcorn?

Rhea didn't move much. She was still stretched sideways on the couch, head resting lazily against the armrest, legs resting next to Rowan's since he laid opposite of her. A giant blanket had been tossed over them both, one of the soft ones that somehow smelled like lavender and laundry detergent no matter how many kids touched it. She didn't need to do anything. The kids had this part down.

Elita leaned over to Optimus, murmuring something about "organized chaos." He just nodded.

The bots took their places one by one.

Sideswipe sprawled out on the floor next to Sunstreaker–who looked like he regretted his life choices the second he got dragged into sitting beside his brother.

Bumblebee and Bluestreak cozied up beside Cora and Calix.

Wheeljack pulled away from his project for the event and parked himself on the other side of the couch, one servo already fiddling with the remote. That was quickly snatched by Ironhide before he could somehow make it blow up, handing it to Rhea.

Chromia and Elita had claimed spots on the coffee table and Grimlock, somehow managing to fold himself, sat right on top of Rowan's side with his optics wide and unmoving from the screen. Everybody was amazed at his patience.

Even the Decepticons had shown up. The trine had chosen a higher vantage point, Starscream and Thundercracker watching with their arms folded like he hadn't quite figured out how to relax, meanwhile Skywarp slouched next to them, pedes out and kicking absentmindedly in excitement.

Knockout sat elegantly perched on the edge of the loveseat, one knee crossed over the other, fingers steepled in mild amusement. He didn't want to be touched.

Soundwave, silent and unreadable, stood just behind the group. Barricade hovered nearby, half in and half out, like he wasn't ready to admit he was interested.

And Prowl and Jazz were on the top of the head of the couch, overseeing all of it.

Finally, Ratchet stormed in with a dramatic sigh, climbing up the coffee table and sitting beside Elita with a huff. "I have better things to do than indulge in children's theater."

Rhea didn't even bat an eye, merely grinning at him. "Everyone's here. That means you have to be."

"I don't take orders from you, youngling."

"Then you must be here by choice."

Ratchet grumbled something under his breath but stayed seated.

With the room fully occupied, one of the Seekers flew over to turn off the lights and they started the movie.

The second the opening notes of Circle of Life echoed through the room, the chaos hushed like someone flipped a switch. The screen glowed with rich reds and golds, casting everyone in a kind of nostalgic, holy light–even if they'd never seen it before. Even Jazz, as casual as he was, felt a quiet hush fall across the space.

And then it began.

When baby Simba was lifted into the air on Pride Rock, the bots blinked–some confused, some oddly touched.

"Is... this a political ceremony?" Prowl asked, arms crossed.

"It's a baby party!" Cora whispered as if that offered any explanation.

Grimlock made a pleased noise in his throat. "Tiny king."

"They're stacking animals now?" Skywarp muttered, leaning toward Thundercracker. "This is what humans do?"

"Not... usually," Thundercracker said, though he didn't sound entirely sure.

Soundwave offered quietly, "Symbolic hierarchy."

"Still weird," Barricade huffed, but he'd moved into the room.

"This planet produces an unusual number of films involving talking organic animals," Prowl murmured, obviously confused with the theme today.

Rhea merely whispered in his direction, "Just wait until we get to the part with the dancing warthog."

As the movie progressed, reactions were scattered and genuine.

At Scar's introduction, Starscream leaned forward with narrowed optics. "Now he's a character I like."

"You would," Knockout said under his breath with the roll of his optics.

"Manipulative. Vain. Bitterly sarcastic," Starscream listed approvingly. "It's like looking into a mirror."

When young Simba started singing I Just Can't Wait to Be King, Bumblebee joined in almost immediately. Calix stood up on the pile of blankets and struck his own version of Simba's pose.

Jazz, still perched at the head of the couch above Rhea, glanced down and grinned. Her eyes were open, just barely, but she was watching. And clearly fighting to keep awake for the sake of the movie.

"You okay down there?" he asked as if he wasn't already coming to his own conclusions.

She gave a slow blink, casting a short glance up his way before falling back onto the movie. "I'm good. Classic cinema. I can't miss this."

"Right," he smiled. "Would be a crime."

By the time the wildebeest stampede began, the mood had taken a complete 180.

The kids leaned forward. The room went quiet. Even the bots were still.

"Scar! Brother, help me!"

You could slice the tension in the room with a knife.

"Long live the king..."

At Mufasa's death, the silence cracked like a dropped dish.

"NOOOOOOO!" Sideswipe gasped loudly, lurching forward like someone had slapped him.

He nearly toppled over Sunstreaker, who shoved him out of his space while muttering, "Primus, keep to yourself."

"You're going to rupture your voice emitter," Ratchet said dryly.

"Dad... come on. You gotta get up. We gotta go home."

Bluestreak was full-on sobbing by this point. "He–he–he trusted Scar–And now Simba..."

"Me Grimlock eat Scar the lion."

"It's just a movie, Grimlock."

"Hmpf."

Optimus shifted slightly and Rhea, as carefully as she could, looked in his direction wondering if maybe this was a bad choice to put on. If he had been reminded of old memories or affected by the movie and his real-life parallels at all, he didn't show it.

Meanwhile, Knockout shook his helm. "That is dark. What is wrong with you humans? First your horror films and now this? You show your younglings this?"

Starscream muttered, "Maybe this planet's media isn't entirely juvenile."

Thankfully, the air shifted again when Hakuna Matata came on.

It was like someone flicked on the lights inside everyone, especially a drowsy Rhea.

She lifted her head and began to sing along with the kids.

Jazz noted that her voice was tired, still relaxed on the couch, but there was no hesitation as she smiled at Cora dancing on the floor and Calix pretended to strut like Timon off to the side.

Even Jaxon, who had been quiet for a while, leaned his head back from where he lay on the floor and said in time with the movie, "What's a motto?"

Rhea smirked down at him, "Nothing, what's a motto with you?"

He giggled, kicking his legs in the air.

Jazz felt his spark tug a little watching it. That strange warmth again.

For all the war, all the wreckage, all the mechanical stress of their lives, this–this moment of human softness was rare and gold-threaded.

"Every time that I–" The warthog sang on the TV.

"Pumbaa! Not in front of the kids," Rhea cut in, without missing a beat, pointing at Sunstreaker, who blinked like he'd been accused.

"I didn't say anything," he muttered, deadpan.

That made her laugh.

They watched on. The scenes passed by, colorful and emotional.

Timon and Pumbaa had the Decepticons in stitches... Well, at least Skywarp.

"I like the pig," Skywarp said. "Pumbaa is the right amount of chaos. Timon reminds me too much of you, Starscream."

Before the red and blue Seeker could snap at him, Thundercracker added to the 'let's get a pig' ordeal. "Could eat Barricade."

"Try it," Barricade growled from across the room.

But by the time the movie shifted into the gentle rhythm of Can You Feel the Love Tonight, her voice was gone, and her head had slipped further into the couch cushions.

Jazz was the first to notice.

Her breathing slowed, her face softened and her arm resting under the blanket twitched slightly as she drifted off.

Jazz didn't say anything. Just leaned back, folding his arms.

When the credits rolled, the lights stayed low.

Ratchet stood with a sigh and turned to the room. "Keep your voices down. Don't wake her or so help me-"

"Bee. Bluestreak. Elita. Chromia. Ironhide–get your charges to bed."

The group started moving like ghosts. The kids whispered, tiptoed, carried pillows and slippers with exaggerated care. Still, every dropped sock and half-latched Velcro felt like a thunderclap in the quiet.

Rowan clicked off the TV with practiced ease, glancing back at his sleeping guardian.

The entire effort was a disaster in slow motion. The kind of "quiet" only kids at a sleepover could manage–blankets dragged too loudly, whispered giggles, someone accidentally stepped on a toy. But Rhea didn't stir.

She was quite literally dead to the world.

At the edge of the room, Jazz heard Skywarp whisper, "That does not look comfortable."

"She is going to wake with pain in all major vertebrae," Knockout muttered from where he stood with the trine.

Soundwave passed them silently. "Request: leave the human alone. Destination: base."

They batted servos at him but chose to leave regardless.

Jazz stayed behind.

Ratchet returned, approaching the couch and climbing up. He noticed that the medic was careful where he stepped despite his grumbling, making a point to tug the blanket higher over Rhea's exposed shoulders. "Humans are not built for recharging like this. And I'll have to hear all about the back strain tomorrow."

He complained even if the answer was as simple as waking her up, but not even Ratchet seemed to want to do that. The medic could see the obvious bags under her eyes.

The room slowly cleared, bots disappearing one by one to take the kids back to their rooms, murmuring goodnights and stepping with uncommon care–probably most to Ratchet and their fear of new dents from thrown wrenches.

Just before Ratchet left, he turned to the only one to remain, sending a sharp look that screamed: watch her since she'd not recharged in her room.

Jazz chose not to translate the string of threats that probably were buried in that sharp look in favor of hopping down to where Rowan sat previously and getting comfortable.

He watched the rise and fall of Rhea's chest in the dark room, his optics working a lot better than a human's would've in this lighting.

She looked...peaceful.

He leaned back against the arm of the couch, folding his arms behind his head and letting his optics dim behind his visor. Might as well relax while on Ratchet's usual duty.

But, he couldn't help but look at her and offer a soft smile she was unable to see, whispering quietly something she couldn't quite hear but was worth saying, "Happy birthday."

And the room, at last, fell still.

And he couldn't help but let his optics drift from her recharging... or sleeping form to the music box that sat on the coffee table.

Chapter 6: A Lil' Magic For the Pain

Summary:

"Let my magic erase away the pain!"

Jazz was the only one left downstairs at this point in the quiet house.

Optimus had issued the command with his usual calm, and Ratchet had followed it with barked precision: don't wake her. And nobody wanted a wrench thrown at them, so silence there was.

He hadn't moved from his perch near the couch. He sat on the edge of the coffee table now, one leg propped up, arms resting loosely across his knee, thinking.

Rhea hadn't stirred. She was dead asleep, curled under that oversized fleece blanket, her dino-theme socks poking out. Her head had tilted slightly, lips parted just a little in unconscious breath.

Jazz glanced once more to make sure she wasn't stirring, then turned his attention back to the small, worn object between them.

The music box.

He'd watched her wind it earlier–seen her face when it opened. There had been something in her expression, something that didn't belong in the warm chaos of their little movie night. A flicker of something deeper.

Now it sat on the table, closed and quiet.

Jazz had been trained to notice details. The box had stories layered into it, soaked into the scuffs and the dulled silver trim. Its wood was soft with age, not from poor quality, but from use, corners worn down from decades of hands, the floral etching on the lid nearly rubbed smooth in places.

He hesitated.

Then placed a careful servo on the lid and eased it open.

The box sprung the tiniest crack, and a sudden chime sang out—bright and delicate, like morning light turned into sound.

"Slag," he whispered, flinching.

He slammed it shut with both servos, knowing the sound echoed louder in the silence than it should have.

He turned sharply to the couch, optics wide.

Rhea didn't move.

Jazz waited, still frozen. One nano-klij. Two. No change.

Her breathing stayed even. Her body stayed curled. She didn't so much as twitch.

Jazz stared at her for a few more nano-kliks, waiting for the tiniest sign.

Nothing.

"She sleeps like she's got a built-in stasis lock," he muttered under his breath. "Damn."

Carefully, he opened the lid again, but just enough to slip his servo in this time. The dancer inside twitched once, triggered by the opening, but it was only cracked enough to quickly fish out what he'd spotted earlier.

A folded paper.

As soon as he had it, he shut the lid again, faster this time. The melody chirped once, like a hiccup, then cut off.

The silence that followed was absolute.

The music box was silenced, its little dancer mid-spin and frozen beneath the lid.

Jazz set it aside and turned to the papers in his servos. He realized that it was actually two. One was small and soft, like it had been touched too many times. The other was thicker—sketch paper. He unfolded the sketch first.

It was... a meadow.

Simple. Rough in some places, detailed in others. You could tell whoever drew it meant something by it, capturing in pencil perfectly the image of an open meadow that faded into a treeline in the distance. The perspective wasn't perfect, but there was a confidence in the lines, the way the light shading added depth and softness to the petals of the wildflowers scattered in the grass.

But his optic caught on the figures in the middle.

Her.

It was unmistakably Rhea, and she was younger...thirteen, maybe fourteen, no older than that. Her long hair was pulled back into a braid that had begun to fall apart, a few strands loose around her face. Her mouth was open mid-laugh, eyes closed. She looked... unburdened.

She was laughing, mid-motion, playing tag or something like it with a younger boy. He looked no older than Jax's age, perhaps ten? He had a bright face, round and full of joy.

Jazz tilted his helm. That wasn't Rowan. Wasn't any of the kids here.

He stared at it.

The strokes of the pencil–the line weight, the subtle shading in the grass, the texture of the trees–there was care in this.

He'd seen Sunstreaker's drawing before, and he noticed that he tended to obsess over a single shadow, a single crease in fabric. Thiswasn't as refined, but it had the same emotional weight. The same stillness inside the art.

This wasn't doodled. This was like a memory preserved in time.

The color wasn't full, just merely sketched on faintly. It's what told him that the boy had the same blonde hair she did, but mid-page, the color stopped. It didn't seem intentional, it looked merely incomplete.

Who drew this? Why didn't they finish?

He gently folded the sketch behind the other paper and looked down at the smaller one that was just as old and creased, but it was faded along the edges where fingers had held it a thousand times.

It was a photo that seemed to answer the first question.

In the picture, Rhea stood between two boys. She was just as young as she was in the drawing, giving him the assumption that this was around the same time, and she smiled widely into the camera like the moment meant everything. She wore an oversized hoodie, and her hair was thrown up in a ponytail on the top of her head. Her arm was around one of the boys, who held the camera at arm's length, snapping the shot. He had her same coloring–blonde hair, green-blue eyes–but where she smiled gently, he grinned with teeth that screamed mischievous and playful.

The other boy?

A mirror of the first. Most of their features were identical, they looked the same age. His best guess is that they were twins.

But his expression was different from his brother's. He stood stiffly on her other side, his shoulders hunched slightly as if he'd been dragged into the photo against his will. His eyes were narrowed, mouth a thin line, but Rhea's arm was hooked around him too, holding both of them close like she wasn't letting go.

Jazz turned the photo over.

Written in faded red marker: Icarus, Rhea, and Sorren.

He stared at the designations.

He tilted the photo slightly, glancing back and forth between it and the drawing. The boy in the sketch–running toward her in the meadow–was the same as the boy with the camera.

The one frowning in the photo looked exactly like his brother, but somehow managed to convey a mood loud enough to hear through a photograph.

Jazz's expression slowly sobered.

Who were they?

Other kids she'd looked after? Family?

He stared at it for a long minute, reading the designations again like they'd tell him more. Icarus. Sorren.

He looked back toward the couch.

She was still there, curled up under the blanket like a stone tucked into the earth. Her head had tilted slightly. Her hand now rested beside her cheek, fingers barely brushing the fabric.

He vented quietly.

Jazz took one more glance at the drawing, at the movement frozen in time. The smiles. The sketch lines pressed into the page with purpose. Whoever had drawn it had known her. Loved her.

Carefully, he refolded both papers–edges aligned, creases matched. He slid them back into the music box, lifting the lid just enough to slip them beneath the velvet lining again. The dancer inside wobbled once but didn't start up.

He closed the lid with the gentlest click, then turned back toward her.

Still sleeping, as expected.

What happened to you, Rhea?

He tilted his helm slightly and leaned back on the edge of the coffee table, folding his arms across his chassis.

One thing was clear.

He didn't know her story yet.

But he would.

---

It had been a week since movie night, and she had grown accustomed to the way they milled about.

Becoming accustomed also rang many alarms when an unusual quiet settled over the house.

Rhea stood in the kitchen, hands on her hips, staring at the open junk drawer where various batteries and other knick-knacks usually lived. Only now it had an eerie emptiness to it, and half a row of compartments was suspiciously light.

She reached in and swirled them with her fingers. "Hmm."

A few things were obviously missing entirely. Not just misplaced, but gone. Which was odd cause she was the only one who ever went through the drunk drawer.

She closed the drawer slowly and turned her head toward the living room.

It wasn't the first time hardware had walked away without a trail.

Her lips into a thin line. "Wheeljack?" she called softly, striding into the living room.

The air buzzed faintly with energy. The Autobot wasn't in view, but his project was from a tucked-away corner of the living room and out of everyone's way. A half-built mechanism sat there like a disassembled portal, wires splayed like spaghetti and glowing faintly blue. On the floor beside it, various items from around the house.

She exhaled.

"...It's fine," she muttered under her breath. "It's fine." She did say he could use what he liked in order to build something to get them home...

If it exploded, it exploded. That was a later Ratchet problem, and she'd take one from his book and find a wrench...

She dismissed the quietness as just that, deciding that, with the kids off at school, she'd find herself falling into her usual cycle of daily activities. After lunch, and she was not ashamed to admit she had taken a nap, she had her afternoon cleaning the quiet home, all while praying Wheeljack didn't break or explode.

Which is exactly what she was going to do after checking up on Wheeljack, she couldn't help it.

She found him exactly where she expected–half-buried in a pile of tools, muttering to himself, and elbow-deep in something that looked both experimental and mildly dangerous. Mildly was an understatement, but she was optimistic in the worst of times.

Rhea stepped over a tiny coiled wire and crouched beside him with a raised brow. "Sooo... is it going to explode?"

He glanced over at her, a cable clenched in one servo, his face lighting up like he'd been waiting all day for someone to talk to. "Hey, perfect timing! I need a steady extra servo to accompany my own."

"Good thing I've got two," she said, holding up her hands like she was ready to fight a war–perhaps that was a bad comparison given their circumstances.

Thankfully, he hadn't looked offended in any regard, more so thankful for the willing help.

He handed her a small tool that looked like a hybrid between a soldering iron and a dental pick while explaining his project. "Alright, so this? This is going to tell us which universe we're in."

She blinked. "Like, multiverse?" This whole concept was still mind-boggling, and her planet had been literally invaded by versions of the aliens

"Exactly!" he said brightly, which made her instantly nervous. "You can't just build a reality-bridge without first pinging the dimension's signature. That'd be like blindfolding yourself, throwing a dart at a map, and hoping you hit your own house."

"So this is... a multiverse GPS?"

"Pshhh. Better. This thing doesn't just locate us, it cross-references timeline bleed, quantum echoing, and localized fate threads."

She blinked again. Uh...what?

He paused. "...It tells you what reality you're in."

"Ah. Right. That."

He pointed at a cluster of wires. "Okay, now twist that red one around the node there–careful, not the yellow one. The yellow one reroutes to the anchor coil and if you mix them up we'll accidentally tune into a prehistoric version of this place."

She squinted. "Is that... bad?"

"Unless you want us to go to a prehistoric place and likely run into old creatures such as Earth's dinosaurs or our predacons. Depends on the universe we tune into, I suppose."

"Well, now I kinda do."

He laughed, then shifted the machine slightly so she could access a panel. "This is the problem with quantum diagnostics. Everyone wants the bridge, nobody wants to map the road."

"Oh yeah," she said, eyes narrowed with mock seriousness. "That's exactly the problem with quantum diagnostics."

Wheeljack just grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "Y'know, you're not bad at this."

"I've pressed, like, three wires together and held your screwdriver."

"Yeah, but you haven't broken anything. That's half the job."

"Flattered."

They worked like that for a while, her handing him tools with vague names like "the stabby wire-flattener" and "that one tube-y thing," while he rattled off more excited theory than she could possibly follow. Still, she listened. That seemed to be enough for him.

Eventually, he tightened the last bolt on the casing, humming with satisfaction.

"I mean, it's ugly," he said, admiring it. "But it'll work. Now to the next part..."

"A motto to live by," she quipped, rising to her feet and brushing dust off her knees. "Alright, multiverse man. I've got laundry to rescue and a vacuum that won't run itself."

He gave her a mock salute with his spanner. "Thanks for lending your vast expertise."

She gave him a wink. "Anytime. Just don't open a portal to Dinojack while I'm gone."

"No promises."

And with that, she left him there, grinning like a kid with a science fair win, already fussing over the next phase, as she returned to the soft rhythms of her everyday.

Rhea turned on the speakers sitting by the TV and had a playlist on low, so as to not disturb every bot in the house, and was picking up the living room bit by bit–folding fuzzy blankets, restacking throw pillows, flicking popcorn kernels off the rug.

The Autobots were scattered around the room in various poses of idleness.

Bluestreak sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through coloring pages the kids had left out. Chromia and Ironhide leaned against opposite walls, keeping a watchful, casual distance. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were play-fighting in the hallway until a vase nearly toppled, and Rhea threw them a single warning look.

They paused, simultaneously claimed they were "stretching," and moved to lounge dramatically on either end of the couch. Wheeljack was working diligently, muttering to himself in the corner and every so often leaving to come back with more things she prayed weren't important. Bumblebee was nearby, humming along to her playlist in pitched buzzes. Jazz was balanced, somehow, on the banister of the stairs, legs dangling lazily, visor reflecting the light of the room.

The higher officers were likely upstairs in the base.

The Decepticons, likewise, at this time of day.

It was... a weird kind of normal.

"You guys ever miss it?" she asked after a while, still on her knees fixing a couch cushion. "Your world? Before this one?"

There was a beat of silence that made her regret even opening her mouth to say anything for a moment. It had just slipped out, a thought in the back of her mind.

Until Chromia answered easily. "All the time."

"Was it better?"

"Hard to say. I hate Jasper." Ironhide said immediately, gruffly even.

Her brows furrowed. "Jasper?"

"Jasper, Nevada. It's where our base is in this old missile silo in the middle of nowhere! And it's hot." Bluestreak explained cheerily, only for Ironhide to hop down, walk over, and quip the back of his helm. "OW! What was that for? It's not like it exists here!" In other words, even if they didn't trust her, she would never be able to go there.

But the red mech was quick to retort, "Decepticons are here, dumbaft."

"Oh... right... I'm sorry!"

He merely rolled his optics and walked over to the blue femme.

"Smokescreen hates the elevator," Bee added with a chuckle, changing the subject.

"Bulkhead constantly seems to break the mechanisms when they use it," Chromia clarified. "But then again, he breaks just about everything."

"Ohhh," Bluestreak said with a smirk, "and Red Alert! You think Ratchet is high-strung? That guy once shut down an entire recon mission because someone moved his stuff."

"Arcee has probably almost killed one of them by now."

"I can't even imagine what's going on back there."

That made her frown slightly, getting a sense of worry in the room. What their absence might have caused.

In an effort to lift the mood back up, Rhea smiled as she leaned her head on the back of the couch. "They sound like a disaster. A loveable one."

Bee lit up a little. "They are. Our human friends make Jasper not so miserable, though."

"You were stationed with humans?" She wasn't expecting that given her own world.

"Oh yeah," Bee said, his voice brightening. "Jack, Miko, and Raf. They are basically part of the team."

"Miko is the loudest," Sideswipe smirked.

"She doesn't shut up." His brother quipped as he passed by, looking annoyed at whatever memory appeared in his helm.

"Jack was the responsible one," Ironhide added. "Kept things grounded. Especially when Arcee went off mission."

"And Raf?" Rhea asked.

Bee's engines purred a little, seeming excited about such a question. "He's my charge! Smartest kid I've ever met. He could hack anything, and he likes building stuff with code. We made this game once and he coded the whole thing from scrap. He reads through Cybertronian tech like it's nothing."

Rhea smiled gently, recognizing the love for this human boy there. They all showed it in different ways, and clearly, Bumblebee was passionate about Raf, missing him just as much as he cared. It made her feel that much better about the bots bonding and watching over the kids. They've done this before. "They sound incredible."

"They are," Bee said, a sad smile reaching his faceplate. "I'm sure they miss us."

They lapsed into a quiet lull. Rhea resumed folding as the bots returned to their own thoughts. She let the music carry them for a while, the melody soft, the vacuum cord dragging behind her like a pet snake.

And it made her think about what others wanted from her, about their desires... And her gaze flicked to the trash bin near the kitchen doorway, where the letter peeked from the edge. She'd moved it around all morning. Thought about it as she folded it sharper. Crumbled it...

Now it was in the trash.

Jazz noticed. Of course he did–though, she never knew he had read what was inside.

He slid down from the banister and walked past her, arms crossed in a casual manner.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding toward the bin as if he was just seeing this letter for the first time.

Rhea did a damn good job at wiping any doubt from her face and shrugging without a care in the world. "Just a paper."

"Mmm."

There was a pause

And then she changed the subject like she always did when the conversation about herself got dangerously close to where she didn't want it to be.

"So, what about you? You like Jasper?" She smirked in his direction.

"I wasn't in Jasper."

Rhea looked up, surprised. "No?"

Jazz shook his helm, visor still turned toward the ceiling as if recollecting the events. "Passed through often but never stayed long."

"Where were you then?"

He smirked. "That's classified."

"Oh come on."

"Really."

"You gonna make me guess?"

"I'm sure you've got a vivid imagination."

"So mysterious," she shot back in a teasing tone.

Jazz tilted his helm in amusement at her. "Only when it keeps me interestin'."

She smiled slightly. "Dangerous game. I might start asking real questions."

He smirked. "Guess I'll have to be even more vague."

"You're terrible."

"I try."

"What are you guys gonna do when you get back?" she asked, changing the subject as she looked around at them.

"I've got a list of pranks to complete," Sides was quick to say, a smug look on his faceplate. The others groaned at that.

She cocked a brow, amused at this. "You've got a list, huh?"

"He's not kidding," Sunstreaker mumbled, crossing his arms.

"I believe it." She chuckled.

There were some murmurs and add-ons about things they wanted to do when they got back. The humans they wanted to see, the things they missed.

Rhea smiled at the conversation. "You all sound like dreamers."

Jazz turned his helm toward her. "Yeah? What about you?"

She blinked. "Me?"

"Yeah," Bumblebee nodded toward her. "What do you wanna do?"

She paused, eyes dropping for a moment. "I'm still in my universe," she said simply, as though she didn't have a place in the conversation. It wasn't like she was the one ripped from her universe.

"Well," Jazz said, voice light as always, "there's gotta be something you want to do here."

Rhea hesitated, feeling every pair of optics on her, which was somewhat unsettling.

She opened her mouth.

Then closed it again.

"I don't know," she said eventually, smiling like she didn't want to disappoint them. "I guess I've got what I need."

They didn't press for more, settling for the answer that was obviously a lie.

The conversation shifted. Bluestreak talked about decorating the elevator with party lights, and Chromia said something about how she needed to fulfill her promise to help Miko with a base playlist. Laughter started again.

But Jazz watched her a little longer than the other, not forgetting her answers.

And she was still smiling when she turned back to the others, but then she disappeared into the kitchen and dug under the sink.

She came back and sprayed the coffee table, wiping it down before her gaze drifted to the steps coming down the stairs and the sharp whirr of the trine flying down.

Rhea's eyes flicked between the two groups. Autobots laughing softly and sharing conversation, Decepticons murmuring quietly among themselves, and a sharp comment here and there.

Ever since they got there, there was a barrier between the two groups. They followed her rule for no fighting, at least she never saw any of it. But that didn't mean they could erase everything between them simply because of circumstances, she knew that, as much as it saddened her.

And Rhea didn't like invisible walls.

So she spoke up without hesitation, not letting the tension and traumatic history between them sway her.

"What about you guys?" she asked lightly. "Do you miss it? Your world?"

Every Autobot and Decepticon in the room went stiff at her question. Even Jazz straightened up, curiously glancing her way at the question toward the Decepticons. It was no mystery that she was kind to everyone and anyone, except maybe Sunstreaker, who she killed with kindness the past week, but it still managed to catch everyone off guard.

Starscream's optics narrowed, as if she were up to something with her gentle tone. "Why do you ask?"

"Same reason I asked them," Rhea shrugged honestly. "Just curious."

The tension was thick.

The Decepticons were not used to inclusion, least of all from a human.

Knockout arched an optic-ridge. "You really want our answer?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind sharing."

There was a pause.

Then Thundercracker surprised them all.

"There was a place," he said, voice rough. "Crystal fields near Vos. Used to fly there after training."

"Clear skies for miles," Skywarp added softly. "No sound but wind, sky, and gems like your earth's frozen waterfalls."

Starscream added, quietly, almost gruffly, "I miss having somewhere to return to."

His trine shared the same solemnity.

It made sense that their answer would have something to do with Cyberton. Earth wasn't their home.

Knockout hummed in agreement, mentioning something about the type of finish you could only receive on Cyberon, as the material simply just wasn't to his standards on Earth.

Rhea smiled softly at them, listening thoughtfully. "That sounds wonderful. I'm glad you told me."

She'd have to ask Soundwave and Barricade later when she saw them... though, Barricade would probably just ignore her.

The Autobots were watching her now, some with caution, some with... disgust–Sunstreaker, and others with admiration for her ability to cast differences aside and merely care. Even if they didn't give a damn about the Decepticons. Heraltruism and empathy were admirable.

"You've all have lives before coming here, one's I'm sure are important to you. And I'm grateful you're here now, but I care about where you came from. Even the parts that weren't good. Hearing about it makes it that much more important to get you back."

Ironhide narrowed his optics at her. "That's...a weird thing to say. You're a strange one, you know that?"

"It's a human thing," she replied. "Knowing what you lost helps you figure out what you still want."

"Poetic." Sideswipe joked.

"Been known to dabble," she said with a smirk.

And just like that, the tension cracked, not vanished, but less heavy.

... How did she do that? Something they may never know.

"You're somethin' else, you know that?"

Rhea looked up, brows raised in surprise, perhaps wondering if she had misheard. Then she locked on who had said it, chalking it up as his usual teasing.

"Is that a compliment?" She smirked in Jazz's direction, for once asking such a question aloud instead of avoiding it.

He smirked right back. "Might be. Would ya accept it if it was?"

She laughed and turned away, just when he thought he had made a breakthrough with the mysterious Rhea in this mysterious alternate reality.

And somewhere in the quiet between factions and folded laundry, the afternoon slipped into a warmth neither side had expected.

Then the front door opened with a soft click.

Rhea barely had time to register it before the familiar sound of feet and chatter spilled through the hallway–bouncy, overlapping voices echoing through the house like a tide rolling in.

"We're back!"

"I'm starving!"

"I told you to tie your shoes, Cora–"

"I did! They untied themselves!"

She turned toward the entryway just as Bumblebee perked up beside her, his optics flickering with concern at the sniffle of tears they both caught.

The tension of earlier conversations dissolved in an instant, replaced by the regular storm that was post-school chaos.

Then she saw Rowan, coming in slower than usual. And behind him, Cora.

Her cheeks were flushed, tear-streaks trailing down to her neck. Her lip trembled just slightly, and she limped in Rowan's grip, one sock sliding down past her ankle and her hair askew.

She was trying so hard not to cry more, and Rhea knew she didn't want to keep crying in front of the bots.

Rhea was already moving.

Bee was a few steps behind her, so much smaller than them, but just as eager to check on the girl he always kept an extra sensor tuned toward.

"What happened?" Rhea asked, kneeling beside them.

"She tripped," Rowan answered, "Over one of the curb cracks outside the tunnel lift. She scraped her knee and didn't want anyone to see."

"I did not cry," Cora insisted, but her sniff gave her away, as well as the puffy eyes and wet neck.

"Of course not," Rhea murmured, brushing hair back from her face. "C'mere."

She lifted her gently, bringing her upstairs with a bunch of worried optics and eyes trailing them.

"Why don't you guys find a snack while I get her patched up, yeah? We will be right back."

"Can we have some goldfish?"

"Sure. Prowl," The mech coming downstairs stopped midstep when she addressed him, "Keep any optic on them, please?"

"Uh... Of course."

Bumblebee followed them as she made her way to the "medbay," setting Cora down on the edge of her bed.

"What happened?" Ratchet was already climbing down the makeshift stairs of the desk and making his way over to them.

"I fell." Cora sniffled.

"She's okay," Rhea assured, already crouched in front of the girl again.

"Her surface wound should still be sterilized."

"I'm getting to that."

"I am the designated medic–"

"And I am big enough to treat her."

Ratchet gave a scandalized huff and hovered closer to supervise.

"Rowan, first aid kit?" she asked without looking, but knowing he followed them upstairs, likely helping Bumblebee there faster. "Bathroom, second shelf."

"Got it," he said, jogging off, leaving Bumblebee on the bed beside her.

Cora's sniffles were quiet now, her arms tight around herself as Bumblebee reached her side. He set a small servo on the side of her leg for comfort.

"I'm sorry," Cora muttered suddenly. "I didn't mean to fall."

"Oh, sweetheart," Rhea said, setting a gentle hand on her ankle. "You don't have to apologize for gravity. It was an accident."

Rowan returned with the kit, to which Ratchet immediately checked it to ensure "nothing had expired or been improperly restocked," which earned a private eye roll from Rhea. Then the boy retreated downstairs per Rhea's instruction.

She cleaned the scrape carefully. "This might sting a little."

Cora winced, eyes shining again.

"It's okay," Rhea said softly. "You're doing so good."

Ratchet loomed nearby like a judgmental cloud. "Ensure you get the whole area."

She opted to ignore him.

Once the scrape was clean, Rhea reached into the kit and pulled out a pink band-aid. It had tiny glitter stars on it.

She held it up like a magician unveiling her grandest trick.

"Alright. I am now going to use my magic to heal you."

Ratchet sighed audibly, or was the word vent?

"There is no such thing as–"

"Of course there is," Rhea cut him off, solemnly placing the bandaid on Cora's knee and then hovering her hand above. "It's a magical order passed down through generations of healers, duh."

Cora let out the tiniest laugh, while Ratchet watched with a grumpy expression and Bumblebee grinning from ear–er, audio-receptor to audio-receptor as she did so.

"Wooo!" Rhea leaned, waving her hand over the knee as she started to exaggerate her words. "Let my magic erase away the pain!"

Cora smiled at her, unable to stop another giggle from slipping out as she wiped her runny nose.

She dropped her hand. "You feel better?"

"A little."

"A little?" She lifted her hand again, "How 'bout now? Awowowow!"

There was a chorus of giggles from both Rhea, Cora, and Bumblebee as she viciously swirled her hand, no magic actuallyhappening, then making Cora smile–but no one was about to tell Cora that, even Ratchet, who watched with the shake of his helm.

Cora beamed at her now, the tears long gone. "It doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Magic," Rhea whispered with a wink. "Don't tell your brothers or they'll want some too. Now why don't you go show the sweet treat we get to seal the magic after an injury?"

Cora gasped with excitement and turned to Bumblebee. "Come on, Bee!"

He didn't mind being scooped up by the excited little girl, holding onto her hands as she bolted out of the room. The door was left cracked behind them, her voice drifting down the hallway like a breeze still carrying the aftertaste of laughter.

Rhea stayed on the floor, one knee bent, arms resting on it. She exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of her neck, a faint grin still tugging at her lips from the glitter-bandage performance. The silence in the room felt like the kind that only came after chaos had worn itself out.

Ratchet hadn't moved from his spot.

He loomed like an exasperated shadow, arms crossed, gaze still on the now-empty bed. His optics flicked to Rhea briefly, then back to the band-aid wrapper she'd dropped.

"...Well," he said at last, like it pained him.

Rhea glanced up. "That bad, huh?"

"You sterilized the wound," he muttered.

She raised a brow. Where was he going with this?

"It was better than the patch job you gave Jazz," he added, more begrudgingly.

"High praise," she said dryly, physically having to bite her lip to hide her smile. "Should I put that on my resume?"

"I'm merely surprised you brought made-up magic into this," he grumbled.

She smirked. "That's my next-level magic. Requires a certification. Do you have one for hovering, perhaps?"

Ratchet snorted. "I hover because I am a medic with real certification that does not require using glitter adhesives to treat abrasions."

"Your loss," Rhea laughed, "Mr. I'm Allergic To Fun."

His gaze stayed on the bed for another second before he finally looked at her, really looked at her.

His expression softened only slightly, but it was gone before she could figure out if she had really seen it.

Then, gruffly, "For someone with no formal medical training, and a tendency toward theatrics... you're not entirely incompetent."

Oh.

This was a compliment.

From Ratchet? She was honored.

Don't ruin it, she told herself. Or he may never spare another compliment her way again.

Rhea tilted her head, pushing herself to her feet. "You always this encouraging?"

"I'm rationing it."

Dammit.

She fucked it up because she has no self control in her comments.

He looked at her a moment longer, then shifted to reorganize the supplies, clearly finished with the conversation.

But before she could head toward the door, footsteps approached, and Optimus's voice met them from the hallway.

"Rhea."

She turned as he stepped into the doorway, pushing the door open wider so she could see Prowl behind him, looking unusually rigid.

"There's a man at the door," Optimus announced, sounding somewhat weary.

She straightened slowly. "A man?"

"Alone," Prowl clarified. "He's knocking. Skywarp looked through the peephole for everybody to confirm."

"Keep everyone upstairs, please."

And just like that, she was out the door, already heading down the hall, leaving Ratchet behind, silent, watching her go with a subtle furrow between his optics.

He looked at Optimus, sharing a look before they followed. 

Chapter 7: Rhythm, Blues, and You

Summary:

"You've got yourself a future dance."

Perhaps she should've looked before opening the door. But would that have changed if she had opened it?

It's not like she could ignore him forever, nor move away.

She was forever frozen.

Her fingers suddenly unsure of themselves as she reached for the doorknob. The metal was cool as she turned it slowly and cracked open the door.

He stood there, swaying just slightly with a kind of casual confidence that never used to mean anything good.

And she stood there frozen, fifteen all over again as her breath caught in her throat and her heart fell to her stomach.

How could one person make you suddenly feel so small, even if you were no longer?

"Well look at you," he said, as if no time had passed at all. "Didn't expect you to look so grown up."

Her heart raced, filling her stomach with butterflies.

"Dad," she said, lacking warmth. It was flat, factual recognition. Like naming a type of weather.

He grinned, uneven and too easy, the kind of smile people wore when they wanted something but couldn't start with the question straight out.

When she said nothing else, he went on.

"Thought I'd swing by. Wish my baby girl a happy birthday."

Her stomach turned a little more, heart clenching as much as she always thought she was ready for the disappointment. "That was last week."

He blinked, then chuckled like it didn't matter. As always. "Well, better late than never, huh?"

Behind her, she heard the soft shuffle of feet, and she had nearly forgotten she had curious company. Hopefully, the bots had listened to her and remained upstairs.

His eyes flicked past her shoulder. "And who's this?"

Cora peeked out first, her little frame half-hidden by the wall. Jaxon stood a little farther back, chewing on a snack. Calixpeeked under his arm. Rowan, tall and quiet, stood at the edge, already frowning.

Rhea's posture changed, shoulders squared just enough as her jaw tightened a fraction in a protective manner. It was as if a momma bear was watching as someone got too close to her cubs, the moment he stepped instead toward them, eyes on them. One wrong move and she'd snap, which was strange because she wasn't even their mother but had every instinct that came with it.

"Cute little gang," he said, stepping past her with the same crooked smile. "Didn't expect to see you playin' house."

Rhea didn't blink as her hand curled tighter around the edge of the door. "Same as I always am." But he never quite listened, did he?

She looked at him carefully now as the kids gave awkward waves.

His collar was misbuttoned, uniform disheveled despite the code they had to follow. And she caught a whiff of his smell as he passed by, inhaling his scent that was faint of something sharp and dry. It wasn't overpowering, but enough to bring her back to a darker time in her life. His eyes were too bright and his movements were just off rhythm.

She lowered her voice for only them to hear, "...Are you drunk?" But she already knew the answer. This was a picture she was used to seeing, but would be damned if the kids had to see it, too.

He pulled back, feigning offense. "What? No. Rae, what kind of thing is that to ask your old man?"

She didn't respond. She didn't need to.

He leaned against the couch like he belonged there. "I'm here to see my girl. Isn't that what matters?"

She could hear the kids whispering to themselves, bringing her back to them.

"Rowan," she called, keeping her eyes on her father. "Could you help the others find that racing game upstairs? The one on the top shelf?"

There was a pause.

Then Rowan's voice came, recognizing what she was doing. "Yeah. C'mon, guys. We left the controller up there too. You were gonna show me the drift trick, remember, Jax?"

Jaxon nodded uncertainly. "Oh. Yeah."

"I wanna do the speed boost," Calix added, excited to play this game she brought up out of nowhere.

The kids' footsteps receded upstairs.

She waited until she heard a bedroom door shut, probably thanks to Rowan, and turned fully to face him.

His expression didn't shift, but she knew that look. She knew this entire act, and she wasn't going to put up with it while the kids were here. It was best they stayed upstairs while he was here, and she would make sure this conversation was brief, as much as her 15-year-old self as a shadow clung to his attention.

"Been a long time," he said, ignoring her expression. "You look healthy. Happier than I expected."

She didn't answer.

"I mean, not that I thought you'd be miserable," he added quickly. "Just... well. You know. Life's hard."

"Yeah," Rhea said quietly. "I know."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I brought you something."

Her brows furrowed as he pulled a beat-up cardboard box from under his arm. It had worn edges and a slight grease stain on the side.

She took it and opened it slowly, only to pull out a plain pair of black socks.

That was it.

"Somebody told me you liked socks," he seemed to explain the gift with a half-laugh. "So I figured, hey, why not. Socks."

Rhea couldn't help but remember the bright yellow ones she wore now with little dancing sushi rolls.

But she didn't say a word, nor waste a breath of air correcting him.

"Couldn't remember your size," he added, as if that made it better. "But I figured socks are socks, right?"

She nodded faintly. "Right."

He rocked on his heels again, looking around like he expected to be offered a drink. "So... this the place?" he asked. "It looks really different from usual citizen housing."

"I'm raising four kids in a group-home."

He ignored the sharpness.

"Big place. Must cost a lot."

"I manage." And Nellie helps keep her on her feet for such luxury down here, but she wasn't going to explain that to him.

"You always were good at getting by," he said, like it was praise.

He was met with her silence.

Long, empty silence.

The kind of space where love was supposed to live, and never did.

Yet her shadow clung to him, clung and clung despite the disappointment and hurt, grabbing it by the ankles and trying to rip it away from something that couldn't even spare a glance. Or remember her birthday.

He scratched his neck. "I know I haven't been around. But I figured this year, I'd at least try. The big 23 and all."

She was 25.

She glanced at the socks in her hand with a sigh. "Did you figure that before or after the second drink?"

He frowned, just for a second. "That's not fair."

"No," she remarked softly. "It isn't."

"I came here, didn't I?"

She nodded. "You did."

"I brought you something."

"You did."

Did he want a pat on the damn back for the bare minimum?

He looked at her, like he was searching for something. Recognition, maybe. Softness. Something to make him feel better.

"I'm not the villain here," he said, quiet. Practically to himself.

Rhea merely smiled, thin and sad. "I know." It was not worth the breath when he was already taking up all the air in the room.

"But you're lookin' at me like I am."

"You didn't have to come."

He shifted his weight. "Maybe not. But I thought... maybe you'd be glad."

"I don't know what I am right now." An honesty statement for lack of better words, or nice ones.

Another silence. Longer this time. It settled around them like dust.

"I should go," her dad said, rubbing his hands together. "Didn't mean to interrupt anything. Just wanted to see my girl."

"Yeah."

"Happy birthday, Rae."

She said nothing as she saw him to the door, clicking it shut.

For a moment, she stood there alone, staring at the wood grain. Her fingers curled loosely around the handle. The socks were still crumpled in the box she held, barely folded, already starting to slide apart. She exhaled quietly, shoulders rising and falling with practiced calm.

Before turning back around–

Rhea paused, eyes locked with every pair of optics in the house.

They were all there.

They had all gathered on the staircase, not saying a word. And they had heard every word.

Rhea's throat tightened until small creaks at the top of the steps broke the spell before anyone had a chance to say anything.

Rhea smiled.

It came so fast, so smooth, it was almost impressive.

Like nothing happened. Like her insides hadn't twisted themselves into a knot ten minutes ago.

"Well," she said lightly, "he's gone."

None of them moved.

She tilted her head, playing it off. "You were gonna show Bee that racing game, remember? I bet he could outdrive Sideswipe."

Sideswipe was first to break amongst the silent bots, voicing his offense to such a statement.

"I could totally beat Bee," Calix declared, instantly reanimated.

"Uh, no," Bee buzzed, stepping from the landing with a mock gasp. "We're gonna test that theory right now."

It seemed she came to a mental agreement with the bots to drop it in favor of the kids.

Cora giggled, and Jaxon followed her down.

Only Rowan stayed where he was.

Rhea met his gaze and softened her voice, knowing exactly why he lingered. The kid was too observant for his own good, dealt with so much at his age, which made you a bit older in the head. So she assured him, "I'm okay, Ro."

He didn't answer.

"I promise," she added gently, performing her smile quite well. "Don't worry about me."

He nodded once, slowly.

Rhea then turned away from them, set the box with the socks on the console table like it was nothing worth remembering.

"I'm gonna go shower," she said casually, brushing her hair back. "Optimus?"

He looked up immediately from his spot.

"Keep an eye on them?"

"Of course," he replied, tone soft but steady.

"Thanks." Her smile twitched. "Just... make sure Jaxon doesn't trick Calix into trading controllers."

That got a huff from Jaxon and a laugh from Chromia.

And then she was moving again, up the stairs, one slow step at a time, heavy in a way that only the bots noticed.

Jazz hadn't moved his optics trailing after her and lingering long after she was out of view, a frown playing on his dermas.

They didn't say anything, but it was clear to all of them.

She wasn't fine.

Not even close.

And still, she smiled.

---

The mirror fogged from the steam the shower had been pouring, the bathroom becoming a box of air and heat and shrinking in slow increments.

The water was so hot, yet her skin was so red and numb to it that she didn't even care as it roared down over her head.

Rhea stood there, skin prickling as she held her arms around herself and stared at the way the water ran down the drain.

The water was so steady against her, but she felt anything but.

The world felt uneven, tilted just slightly underfoot, and it struck her like memory.

The steam curled too fast, and the air felt so tight. The water hissing like static, running down her skin, clogging her eyes and somewhere beneath it–

She wasn't standing in the bathroom anymore.

With her eyes shut, it was easy to fall into the dark, her breath caught in all the memories he resurfaced.

Her eyes snapped open, blinking hard to shake it away, only succeeding in her hand trembling as she reached for a shampoo bottle.

The water was hot against her skin, but the deja vu in her mind told her it was cold to the touch against her numb skin.

Her fingers tightened against the bottle, but it might as well have been like swiping your hand through water, desperate to claw your way to the surface.

"Rhea–I can't breathe–"

She dropped the bottle with a gasp, ignoring the loud thud of it slamming against the tile, bouncing around before settling by her feet.

Her chest tightened and her breath came short. It felt like there wasn't enough air in the room.

Part of her knew it was the amount of steam from standing in the hot water for so long in an enclosed room, but another part of her was suffocating in a memory.

And the weight in her chest swelled so fast it felt like a scream trying to claw its way out of her ribcage. There was air in the room, just she felt as though she was drowning.

She shut the water off with a trembling hand, twisting the knob until it squealed, causing the silence to return violently. But she sucked in a greedy breath of air as her back hit the wet wall and slid down.

But something still dripped; she could feel it against her skin. What was that?

"Rhea? You okay in there?" A voice asked outside the door, one she recognized as Elita. "I heard a bang."

It took her a moment to reply, distracted by the dripping.

She furrowed her brows, looking up, but the shower had been turned off.

But then her hand reached up to wipe the drip from her face, only to feel wet cheeks with tears rolling down.

She hadn't even noticed she had begun to cry, not until the tears clung to her jawline and lashes, slipping down her collarbone.

"Rhea?" Elita sounded like she was going to find a way in, tiny or not, if she didn't reply.

Rhea snapped out of it as she wiped her eyes, taking a breath before calling out, "I'm okay!" Her voice was hoarse, and she took a moment to clear it, "Just... dropped something!"

Elita didn't say anything, but she knew she probably lingered. She had probably been there since she started her shower because of something Rhea liked to call "bot babysitting duty," which was usually Jazz's duty when it came to Rhea. It seemed they felt it right for a femme to wait for another when showering, which she respected their regard.

Rhea stood up slowly, stepping out on unsteady legs and wrapping a towel around herself more like armor than comfort.

And when she had pulled herself together, she had stepped out, nodding to Elita, who waited by the door.

Then there was the soft click of her bedroom door being the only noise in her bedroom. Usually the door stayed cracked, like most doors but especially for the "medbay," but everybody would understand her need for privacy at this moment.

Rhea stepped inside, a towel around her head and body, wet hair clinging to the back of her neck. She was moving slower than usual, less from exhaustion and more from the heaviness that followed her like steam off her skin.

Ratchet was there, as always, perched atop a stack of paperbacks on her desk, a large hardback book splayed open across his knees like a workbench. The spine sagged beneath its own weight as he flipped the page comically bigger than him.

He didn't say anything, and neither did she.

Rhea crossed the room, digging through her clothes and pulling on her undergarments while shielded by her towel around her shoulders–she couldn't help it, despite knowing he didn't care, especially as a medic. She tugged on a shirt and some shorts, padding barefoot across the room to her dresser.

Finally, she pulled on clean socks–purple with little planets on them–and sat on the edge of the bed.

Ratchet watched her quietly over the curve of the page.

Then, voice low, "He's wrong to treat his youngling in such a way."

Her spine straightened slightly, not expecting him to say anything at all until now.

But she was quick to shrug it off. "It doesn't matter." Rhea had learned a long time ago that it wasn't worth the effort to complain about. There were a lot bigger problems out there other than a deadbeat dad. And he certainly wasn't accepting any criticism, so what was the point in saying anything at all when you could just move on to the happier things?

Ratchet snapped the book shut, making her flinch.

"That's a load of scrap."

Rhea's eyes cut toward him, caught off guard.

"You think it doesn't matter," he said, calm and level, narrowing his gaze at her, "because he made you feel like it didn't."

Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came. He had snatched them right from her tongue.

"You got hurt," he continued, firmly as if scolding her, yet it was not quite the same. "And someone should've shown up. Someone didn't. That matters. Don't dismiss that like it's nothing, youngling."

Part of her felt this came from the fact he viewed her as a youngling. That could make him protective in a way, right?

Rhea looked down at her knees where her hands curled in. The damp towel she once wore was now twisted between her fingers.

"I'm not a kid anymore," she reminded softly, like that excused everything. That he didn't need to be protective because she wasn't a youngling–or a kid.

"No," Ratchet admitted as if he hadn't had it wrong this whole time, stepping off the stack of books with a slight stomp in his step. "But you were. And someone should've known better."

Her eyes stopped blinking for a little too long, that's what she told herself when that stinging sensation returned.

"I'm fine."

Ratchet stepped closer across the nightstand.

He didn't soften his voice, but he didn't raise it at her either...

"You don't have to be."

Something in her shoulders dropped. Just slightly. Like a defense system powering down.

"Even Primes have moments, and I don't believe you are an exception."

She was quiet, eyes locked with his stern optics that dared her to argue with him on this. Not because of his usual will to make sure everybody knew he was right and they were dumb, like he told them. This was something else, and it... Well, it surprised the hell out of her.

Then, because it was Ratchet, he added, "And for the record, I would've thrown the slagging socks back in his face."

In other words, doesn't he know you never wear anything less than annoyingly stupid themed socks and show them off every morning? She could see him spitting in his face, 'i've been here for a week and I know this. Keep up. Better yet? Get out.'

That earned a breath of a laugh. "They were... bad socks," she admitted quietly.

"The worst."

He sat back down on the edge of her lamp, arms crossing in front of him like he had always belonged there.

And Rhea, for once, didn't fill the silence.

She just let it sit, feeling like she could actually breathe in that presence that wasn't going anywhere for a while.

---

The house had fallen quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came when people whispered or moved slowly. The kind of quiet that felt thick, deep, where sound didn't bounce so much as sink.

The kids had been asleep for a while. She'd checked on them twice–once to tuck in Calix who kept rolling onto the floor, and again to make sure Rowan had actually put his book down.

He hadn't.

She turned off his light anyway.

Now, back in her room, Rhea pulled the sweater tighter around her shoulders. It wasn't cold, not really, but there was something about the house at this hour that gave everything a softer edge. Even the lamplight. Even the hum of distant vents.

For once since arriving, Ratchet wasn't there.

He'd given her one of his signature half-scowls earlier and muttered something about Optimus needing him and he left with a gruff, "Don't somehow injure yourself just cause I walk out of the room. We don't need another Wheeljack." It was sweet, really. Well, maybe if he wasn't so serious about hurling a wrench at her if she failed to listen.

Still, the quiet wasn't unwelcome. She turned the volume up slightly on the old speaker beside her desk, letting soft instrumental music filter through the room–gentle strings and the occasional piano note like a conversation too tired to speak full sentences.

Rhea stretched out on her bed, legs tucked beneath her. Her eyes slipped shut just for a moment, her thoughts barely settling when–

A knock, soft and rhythmic, against the door. And a knock wasn't often given in this house.

She blinked and sat up, brushing her hair back from her face.

"Come in."

The already cracked door creaked wider, and Jazz slipped in with that same smooth nonchalance he always carried, like he'd been here before and didn't need to ask permission.

"No medic in here tonight?" he teased gently as he entered.

"He got called to the frontlines," she replied with a tired smile. "Or... the kitchen. I wasn't really listening."

Jazz chuckled as he climbed up the edge of her bed so he could be closer to converse with the human girl. The music drifted quietly between them. Nothing dramatic, just a sweet echo of something almost forgotten.

"You tired?" he asked suddenly, as if to ask why she was still awake. Last she checked, the clock read 1:07 AM.

She shook her head after a moment. "Not really," Which was true. She couldn't sleep right now if she tried.

He nodded like he understood, and of course, he did. Jazz was the kind of bot who always listened more than he spoke, especially when it counted. Oftentimes for his benefit, but no one was calling that out right now.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. He read the air about bringing up the earlier incident with her sire er–dad. Right, that was the word. The only reason he didn't press about it was because Ratchet told the officers he had it handled, which helped some.

But he had come in here for two reasons.

One was to help the sleepless girl feel a bit better, which was his specialty.

The other was, well, he'd figure that out later.

Without warning, he shifted his weight against the softness of the bed and asked, "Y'know, I don't think I got an honest answer outta ya earlier."

"Hm?" Her head turned up, obviously confused.

"What you wanna do if ya could."

"I told you–"

"Humor me."

He didn't accept that answer she gave earlier, nor did he believe it as sweet as it sounded. She had to want something.

She was quiet for a long moment, and he almost thought he wasn't going to get an answer, until, voice soft, she said, "There's this place I think about sometimes. Not even sure it exists."

Jazz tilted his helm slightly, listening.

"It's open," she continued. "And there's this lake. Wide enough that it feels like sky when you're in it."

Her fingers traced the comforter of the bed.

"The air's different there. No pressure. Just... breath. The kind that doesn't get caught in your chest."

Jazz didn't interrupt. And because of this, she rambled on.

"There's a meadow nearby," she added, not quite looking his way but her eyes hazed over as if picturing every detail behind the gloss of her eyes. "Wildflowers. Tall ones of all colors, and the kind that sway even when there's no wind. And it's quiet, not dead quiet, just... open."

She swallowed gently, so lost in this vision that she didn't seem to realize how intently he watched her.

Then, voice light, he said, "That's a hell of a picture you paint."

"It's just a thought," she replied softly.

"Mm. Feels more like a memory."

She glanced sideways at him, her mouth twitching, almost a smile. "Maybe."

The soft background melody shifted–a piano now, something with wandering notes that rose and circled but never quite landed.

And she quietly added after a moment, as if thinking it through and realizing she was a little crazy for spewing all that, "It's probably just a made-up thing. A place for the mind to go when it's tired, y'know?"

"Doesn't mean it's not worth finding," he shot back easily.

Then Jazz stretched an arm behind him as he reclined a little more against the lamp base, visor glinting with faint amusement. "You know," he said, casual as ever, "for someone describing a dreamscape outta a romance film, you're missing a vital detail."

Rhea blinked, then smirked his way. "Oh yeah? Enlighten me."

"A dance in there, duh." He tilted his helm as though it was obvious, ignoring the way her face contorted in confusion, "You can't have an open field and water rippling like poetry and not have someone twirling around in it. That's just bad choreography."

She let out a light laugh. "Okay, dance expert."

Jazz tapped his chassis with exaggerated pride. "You're lookin' at the best breaker in Iacon. Rhythm for days. I know that I'm talkin' 'bout here."

That made her laugh again, warmer now, more real. "And who says I don't have just as equal credentials?"

"Oh, yeah?" He cocked an optic-ridge at her, his spark demanding her to go on, prying what he could out of her in a desperate need for a reason he could not pin, despite the nonchalant and challenging air he gave off.

"Believe it or not, I'm a dancer, too. So I have just as much weight in this conversation."

"You are?" His visor remained locked in her direction, a smile playing on her lips as she spilled more about herself, and this piece of information he soaked up greedily.

She nodded. "For years. Since I was a kid."

That caught his full attention.

"No kiddin'. And here I was thinkin' you denied the challenge from Sideswipe out of lack of rhythm." That was a lie. She had consistent mannerisms that pointed in one direction, but he just had no confirmation of his suspicions until now.

Oh, how he loved when he was right. Especially about this.

"And I was not kidding when I said I'd kick his ass at Just Dance." She chuckled.

"Touche... So, what style of dance, darlin'?"

"Contemporary, mostly. Ballet when I had to." She shrugged one shoulder. "It was kind of everything, once."

Jazz leaned forward slightly, visor catching the soft gold of her lamp. "You're full of surprises."

She gave a modest shrug.

Jazz leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting just enough to match hers. "You still do it?"

"Not in a while." She twisted the edge of her sleeve. "After...everything happened, it just stopped fitting. Like the world didn't have room for it anymore."

He didn't answer right away, merely letting that sink in.

There were so many unknowns with that answer, so many pieces he didn't have, yet.

He was slowly building the puzzle, though, not frustrated at the way she kept adding more pieces. He had quite the patience if he wanted.

Jazz smiled softly at her, offering, "Maybe the world just doesn't deserve it right now."

She snorted. "That's very poetic for a guy who's about a foot tall."

He held up both servos as if in surrender. "Small in size, large in dramatic flair."

Rhea shook her head, smiling again despite herself.

Meanwhile, he tilted his helm in thought, carrying the conversation in an entirely different direction. "So let me get this straight. You're a dancer. I'm a dancer. And somehow, here we are. Same house. Same universe. If that's not destiny, I don't know what is."

She laughed again, surprised by the warmth blooming in her chest. "Destiny, huh?" He sounded so confident, and she couldn't help but crack up at his enthusiasm for the subject.

"Two dancers drawn across time and space to one another," he said with a dramatic wave of one servo. "Clearly, the universe wanted this duet."

"You're ridiculous."

"And yet, persuasive."

She smiled wider, teeth barely showing. "Yeah, well... you're not exactly dance partner-sized."

Jazz clutched his chassis in mock betrayal. "Low blow."

"You're making short jokes at yourself now."

"I can never escape the short jokes, can I?"

She furrowed her brows."What do you mean?"

He cringed a little bit before admitting, "I'm on the shorter side of bots, but Bee is smaller than me." He added the last bit like it was important to recognize. He was not the shortest. Very important to note, according to Jazz.

"Okay, okay." Rhea laughed slightly, recognizing the slight soft spot and falling back to the original conversation, "I'm just saying. If I spun in a circle, you'd catch wind and fly across the room."

"That's not a no."

"It's not exactly a yes." She laughed her response out, the kind that touched her eyes. The sound of it made him smile.

And for all his playfulness, his visor met her gaze with something open and steady as his tone changed and he added, "If you ever do find that place you described, real or not, save me a dance."

She blinked, half wondering if she had heard that correctly.

That quiet warmth returned. It didn't feel heavy, just... still.

"You sure about that?" she whispered, a part of her telling her this was an empty promise and the other begging her to accept it even if she might be disappointed, like everything else managed to do to her.

"I wouldn't miss it." he promised so easily.

"You sure? I might step on you." she joked in the softness of the moment, unable to handle the pressure in her chest, as mysterious as it was.

"I've survived worse," he said, mock solemn. "But that's assuming I'm not back to my usual self by then, in which case I might step on you."

She smiled at him with a shake of her head, "How about we just just hope one isn't bigger than the other in this scenario for both of sake's."

"Alright then," Rhea nodded, confirming a promise that could probably never be fulfilled. "You've got yourself a future dance."

Jazz smirked, but it was softer than before. "I'll hold you to that."

The music faded into a slower melody, piano drifting like a slow tide.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

And in that quiet space between their words, was a song no one could hear. Not even them.

Not yet. 

Chapter 8: Cant Take My Eyes (Optics) Off of You

Summary:

“If I win, I get to see your optics.”

Saturday settled over the house like an exhale. The kind of afternoon where the walls didn’t hum with tension, where Rhea got halfway through her second coffee of the day–she was so tired–before anyone asked her a question, and where the kids somehow miraculously slept in.

The scent of old birthday cake still clung to the air, which Rhea had already had for breakfast to finish off the leftovers–she was scolded by Prowl and Ratchet for that one. She leaned against the kitchen counter, socked foot hooked on the lower cabinet, mug warm in her hands.

The bots were scattered across the room. Jazz was upside down on the armchair, flipping through a comic of Jaxon’s in curiosity, constantly adding ‘hey prowler look at this’ at every page. Prowl was not listening, merely humming as though he was interested. Bumblebee had Cora and Jaxon wrapped in couch cushions like building a house of cards over them, giggles filtering through the house. Grimlock hovered near them, constantly knocking it down when he wanted to be involved, leading Bee to groan and have to restart.

She didn’t notice Thundercracker until he shifted beside her, grabbing his ration of coffee.

“You always stand that quiet?” she asked, not unkindly.

“I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you,” he said, voice low and even. He was like a silent shadow, much like Jazz. But with the saboteur, you didn’t even realize he was there with how quietly he walked.

“I didn’t say you were.” She tilted her head slightly to study him. “Something bothering you, or are you just brooding for the aesthetic?”

He didn’t take the bait. His optics flicked across the room and landed on Soundwave, who stood by the back of the couch, saying nothing but watching the kids. He often hovered around them.

“I didn’t think he’d be the type to like kids,” Rhea murmured, mostly to herself, seemingly noticing the same thing.

She had noticed that Soundwave only really talked to the kids and he made a point not to snip at them like Barricade did–though she nearly punted the Con for doing so and he hasn’t done it since. He has settled for just ignoring them and speeding off.

Thundercracker nodded. “They probably remind him of his cassettes.” It was the only comparison that could lead to that conclusion.

They watched as Soundwave’s visor tracked the kids’ movement with an intensity that went just past detached concern.

“His cassettes?”

Thundercracker folded his arms. “They’re mini-cons. They live inside him, kinda, and deployed when needed. Small, fast, useful in a fight. Annoying as the pits..”

She chuckled a little at his small optic-roll, as if reliving an annoying memory when speaking of them. She assumed they were still back in their universe, otherwise she would’ve had even smaller bots running around causing havoc.

“But they were, like… part of him, sure, but also kinda like his younglings in a way.” Thundercracker said seriously, as if it all added up to why he watched over the kids.

“Seems like he just misses these cassettes then.”

“I’d assume so, but Soundwave doesn't talk much let alone about feelings.”

A beat passed. Then, in a lighter tone simply to lighten the conversation, she added, “Still, if he starts carrying Jaxon around in his chassis, I’m calling a meeting.”

Thundercracker didn’t smile, but something in his posture relaxed. “I’ll let you know if it gets that far.”

“Was that a joke?” The Thundercracker was joking with her now? She was honored.

“Take it or leave it, fleshy.”

“Words hurt, TC.”

They fell quiet again, the moment easy, if a little heavy.

Leave it to Wheeljack to interrupt a quiet moment, though.

“IT’S DONE!” The shout cracked through the room, bouncing off the walls with enough force to make Rhea flinch.

“Oh no,” Bumblebee muttered from under the cushions that Grimlock had knocked over again, the kids giggling under it.

“The multiversal pinning device is complete!” he declared.

Elita looked up from her datapad. “Did you finish wiring the stabilizer this time?”

“Better,” he said proudly. “I repurposed the microwave array!”

Prowl’s expression didn’t move, but he stood up.

“Couch,” Rhea told the kids as she entered the living room as all the bots started macking their way into the living room.. “Now, please.”

They moved, less frantic than usual, but still with practiced care. Cora ducked behind the back cushions while Rowan pulled Jaxon and Calic down beside him. The couch had become their default blast shield.

Thundercracker used his thrusters to hover beside Rhea, watching Wheeljack with that same unreadable expression.

“You’re not worried?” she asked, casting a glance in his direction.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve seen him do this before?”

“I’ve seen him do worse by accident on battlefields.”

Wheeljack clapped his servos together. “Alright, alright! Let’s power this beauty up.”

Thundercracker flew over to the other Decepticons, who had herded together on one side of the room.

Optimus stepped forward in front of the group of Autobots, standing with a decent distance between them and the Cons. “Wheeljack, remember, small-scale diagnostics first.”

“I know, I know,” Wheeljack replied a little too absentmindedly, flicking switches. “This is the careful version. A bit rushed but…”

The machine sat awkwardly in the back of the living room, surrounded by cables, metal slabs, and whatever he'd scavenged from the house, a gaming console, and maybe pieces of the dishwasher that she found no longer worked andput off the maintenance request due to her guests' presence. It pulsed gently with a low blue light.

“This fragged-in-the-helm scientist is gonna offline us all.” Knockout muttered, not entirely confident.

Rhea glanced at Jazz, “How’s the confidence level?”

Jazz cast a glance her way before shrugging. “I’ve seen it not blow up before during the trial sequences. So... there’s that.” It wasn't that he didn't trust Wheeljack. He had produced brilliant inventions that have saved their afts or helped them more than once. But, he also knew that a rushed Jackie with scrap for materials was not a great combination.

Wheeljack threw the final switch. The lights in the room flickered as the device hummed, then clicked, the sound somewhere between… seemed to work because, well, it didn’t explode.

“Calculating universe signature... now.”

They all watched the tiny screen. Rows of alien characters flashed past–and then, two stabilized.

“There!” he shouted, overly excited that it worked. “There we go! That’s it! Got the whole quantum signature right here!”

A ripple of cautious excitement passed through the room.

“What are we looking at?”

Wheeljack grinned. “Top line… U-127:4F32.B91K.ALPHA. That’s our universe.”

“And the other one?” asked Optimus, his tone even.

Wheeljack gestured toward the second string, still blinking red. “U-555:D0C7.19ZX.BETA. That’s where we are now, which is structurally similar. Just… barely off. We’re like, in human terms, next-door neighbors.”

“Off how?” Ratchet asked, stepping a little closer, which most applauded his confidence to step closer to the machine still on…

“Well, minor variances in time dilation, ambient energon readings, and, oh yeah,reality doesn't quite seal right around certain frequency tech. Hence the unstable jumps.”

Rhea folded her arms, not quite understanding all of it but gathering, “So you’re stuck in Universe 555,” She didn’t feel like repeating all of that, “until you figure out how to build the bridge to take you to those coordinates?”

“Basically,” Wheeljack said, entirely too chipper for someone surrounded by scorch marks. “But now that I’ve got both codes pinned, I can start writing the jump parameters. It’s like having the address, you just need the ride. Though it’s gonna be admittedly tricky to build the bridge, given I don’t know what went wrong last time."

Thundercracker, still standing near this trine, spoke quietly. “That ‘ride’ better not blow a hole in the multiverse.”

Wheeljack gave a half-hearted shrug. “Eh, fifty-fifty.”

Then the hum deepened, drawing all their eyes and optics to it.

Rhea straightened slightly. “Wheeljack?” Her voice came out uneasy, eyeing the machine wearily.

“I see it. It’s just the processor… adjusting. I think. Just in case, I’ll just–” He rushed over to it, ripping out a set of wires since, well, they probably didn’t need it anymore.

A new sound joined the hum instead of the machine turning off, higher-pitched, sharper. The lights on the console flickered red.

The whole group took a step back. “...Jackie?”

“Fine. Probably. I think.” He reached for a few more things, trying desperately to switch it off and stay calm simultaneously, even while holding ripped wires in his servo. “Might be some feedback from...”

The machine hissed.

A jet of smoke rose, and Rhea instinctively grabbed the back of the couch.

Then, before anyone could react, a pulse of light and sound surged from the machine in all directions.

“DOWN!” Wheeljack shouted, but it was already too late.

The EMP swept across the room.

Rhea stumbled as it pressed against her ankle. Thankfully, she was a lot bigger than the machine, but the bots were not so lucky. Around her, metal clanged and thudded as several bots crashed backward, some into walls, others into each other. One of the lights overhead flickered and burst, thankfully not over the kids’ heads.

Silence settled in like dust until their groans filled it.

“Is everyone okay?” Rhea asked, rubbing her shin while checking them over. She then muttered to herself, “Damn, that felt like getting hit by a metal scooter…”

They began to sit up, muttering complaints about the whole ordeal while Wheeljack was sprawled behind the console, arms splayed out like he’d been ejected. His processors thrummed, trying to catch up with his systems.

“Well the good news is,” he called faintly, voice glitched for a moment, “we got the code...”

Ratchet stormed over, wrench pulled from his subspace. “You nearly launched half the room!”

“It’s a strong signal!” WHACK!

“Ow! Ratch!”

WHACK!

“I need to start working on the bridge, I need my helm! OW!”

Starscream straightened, arms folded. “Now that’s something I can help with.”

Wheeljack squinted at him. “Wait, you’re offering to help?”

“I’m offering to supervise and assist. Primus help us if you build the machine we have to walk through.”

Rhea leaned against the back of the couch after checking up on the kids, blowing hair out of her face as she stared at the smoking, scorched machine. And here she thought it was an exaggeration about how projects were prone to blowing up.

From behind the cushions, Jaxon peeked up. “Can we move now?”

Soundwave didn’t speak, but his visor swept over the room, eyeing the youngling.

The console still sizzled, smoke curling up from the fried corner panel, but Wheeljack looked far too pleased with himself for anyone’s comfort.

Optimus had just stepped forward to speak when the front door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall. They all jumped like frightened cats.

“I’ll kill him! What did he–”

A man stormed into the home that all bots locked their gaze on–in his early twenties, lean, sharp eyes, black hair in disarray, and a tactical jacket already half-zipped like he hadn’t even finished dressing before charging out. He scanned the room with fast, surgical fury.

Behind him, two figures followed.

One was a woman–beautiful in that too-sharp, too-ready way, curls swept back, eyes fierce. She looked like she could cut someone with a stare alone. The other one they were familiar with: Nellie, mouth already open like she had been shouting and ran out of breath halfway through.

But all three froze.

Because the room was filled with giant robots and half a dozen kids tucked behind a couch. And not just any robots–miniature versions of who they had gotten back from a mission fighting… Shrunken Cybertronians. Some sitting, some still recovering from a small explosion. All staring right back just as frozen.

There was a moment where the world held its breath.

No one moved.

This was…awkward.

“…Madoc! Astryd! Nellie!” Jaxon’s voice broke the spell, followed quickly by Cora and Calix as they popped up from behind the couch, beaming. “You’re here!”

They sprinted toward them without a second thought, completely oblivious to the weight in the room.

Madoc took a step back in visible alarm. Astryd’s hand was already moving to her sidearm. Nellie looked halfway between furious and horrified.

Astryd drew first. Or tried to.

Because the second her fingers touched metal, a dozen servo-clicks echoed across the room as at least five bots simultaneously armed their weapons.

Grimlock’s optics lit up like sunfire. Ironhide’s cannon rotated audibly. Prowl moved between Rhea and the intruders without a sound, blaster already powered. Even Bumblebee, crouched low near the couch, had one hand halfway toward shielding the kids and the other glowing bright. The Decepticons were all armed and ready at a moment’s notice.

Astryd’s grip froze on her gun.

“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, WAIT!” Rhea shouted, cutting across it all, hands up like she was calming down a street brawl. “I can explain! Don’t fragging shoot each other.”

Madoc mouthed the foreign word ‘fragging’ to himself in obvious conclusion while Asytrd’s fingers hovered inches from her holster, eyes sharp. “How can you possibly explain this?”

Rhea blinked and glanced at the bots, the kids, then the fried machine still steaming in the background.

“…Uhh…”

Wheeljack helpfully raised a servo. “It was kind of my fault?”

Rhea gave him a look. “Not helping.”

Jazz tilted his helm, smirking. “Y’know, this is the calmest armed standoff I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Jazz,” said half the room at once.

---

The cartoons were loud.

Too loud, probably, but Rhea didn’t have the energy to tell them to turn it down. She sat at the dining table, nursing her third mug of coffee today, as the kids giggled at whatever flashing colors Bumblebee had queued up for distraction.

Bluestreak lounged on the arm of the couch, talking softly to Rowan, but his optics flicked toward the table every other sentence.

They were listening.

Most pretended to be busy–tuning weapons, checking datapads, watching the kids–but their attention never truly left the dining room.

Optimus stood at the center of the table, the wooden surface beneath his pedes and Prowl directly beside him, arms folded. Jazz leaned against a pepper shaker like it was a railing. Starscream stood stiffly beside a napkin holder, keeping his distance from the Autobots and radiating contempt. Soundwave remained motionless at the far end, silent as ever but obviously listening.

Across from them sat Astryd, Madoc, and Nellie.

The tension was quieter now, like it had seeped into the wood grain.

This felt like a high-stakes council meeting held at a dinner table. Most were about a foot tall, their presence still commanding despite their size, which clearly didn’t sit well with her friends. Rhea sat with her arms braced on the table’s edge, mug forgotten beside her after a while.

She had explained everything.

The whole ridiculous, impossible truth of how the figurines had come to life, as if the concept of multiple realities wasn’t hard enough to grasp, how they’d grown, adapted, how they were stranded in a universe not their own, and how Wheeljack’s half-finished tech was their only shot at getting back.

It sounded insane, but then again, the bots were standing right there as living proof.

The kids were tucked into the cushions again, watching cartoons. Bumblebee and Bluestreak lingered nearby, half-watching the screen, half keeping an optic on the table like backup was just one step away.

Rhea was surprised when Starscream suddenly broke his silence and snapped, voice brittle. “If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to shoot your fleshy optics and make you.”

Nellie had been staring at him the entire time (which made sense given she knew exactly who he was, or at least their version of him.)

Nellie arched a brow, defensive and just as snappy as the Seeker. “I can’t help that you look like someone who should come with a warning label.”

He growled at her. “And you look like someone who thinks a sidearm makes her clever.”

“Okay,” Rhea cut in quickly, lifting a hand between them like she was directing traffic. “Let’s all breathe before someone gets their tiny chassis kicked across the sugar bowl or eyes get plucked out.”

Starscream muttered something in Cybertronian. Probably a string of curses accompanying his insults.

Optimus, calm as ever, redirected. “Tensions are understandable. But if we are to coexist, we need clarity and cooperation from both parties..”

Astryd gave a slow nod. “I’m listening. But this isn’t easy to swallow.”

“That is logical,” Prowl said from his end of the table. “But it is the truth.” He would know. He was the one bot who struggled to grasp it in the beginning more than anyone else. He crashed a few times before coming to terms.

There was a moment where Madoc looked like he was going to say something, something very inconvenient, but Rhea shot him a look so sharp it could cut glass.

Don’t.

He blinked once, eyes narrowing slightly at her as they had a silent conversation with their eyes. It showed on their faces.

Jazz, seated casually beside the salt shaker, watched that exchange with interest. His visor didn’t shift, but she could feel the suspicion radiating off him. Still, he covered it well.

He didn’t fail to notice that most visitors came dressed in human clothing, much like Fowler’s soldiers did. Just slightly off. The dog tags around their necks were noted… He was starting to make assumptions, but again, he didn’t have enough information for any conclusions.

But whatever conversation they exchanged as if humans suddenly gained the ability to have bonds or internal comlinks silenced the human male before he could spill anything.

Jazz knew an opening when he saw one, and he was sure one of these new humans was the answer to finding out more.

“Perhaps introductions will help ease the atmosphere,” Optimus offered, breaking the tense silence. “We are guests in Rhea’s home. We’d like to know who her allies are.”

Astryd spoke first with a short nod. “Astryd Sloanne.”

Madoc grinned, looking far too happy about this entire encounter “Madoc Everhart, the hottest one of our lil’ group.” He was promptly pinched by Asytrd, yelping slightly.

The bots noted that it seemed they had another Sideswipe-like personality on their servos, Prowl inwardly sighing.

Then came Nellie. Her voice was quiet, unsure. “Cornelia Lenore. Just call me Nellie, though…”

Her gaze drifted as she spoke, right to Sideswipe, who was strolling casually through the hallway with Sunstreaker, clearly eavesdropping without even pretending otherwise. He slowed as he passed the opening, but had been caught by the human girl.

“You,” Nellie suddenly spoke, surprising him as much as he quickly covered it up with sly casualness. “I picked you up the other night. I don’t suppose you were online yet.”

“I was,” Sideswipe said smoothly, shooting his brother a glare as Sunstreaker promptly kept walking, leaving him to fend for himself with no care to make conversation. “Fully conscious. Just figured playing as this frame I was thrown into was better than enduring any sort of conversation with another humie.”

“You were quite heavy for someone so short,” she retorted.

“And yet somehow still more graceful than you hauling me like I was a discount couch from a thrift store.” He only knew about any of that because of the endeavour of getting the couch for the kids back at their base in their universe. They ended up needing Fowler’s help.

“You weigh more than a damn couch.”

“I prefer to think of myself as compact muscle and unfiltered charm.”

“You’re dense, alright.”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere.”

Rhea gave Nellie a warning glance, telling her to stop provoking.

Nellie ignored her in favor of trying to give an insult to the red mech. “You’re like a little vending machine that eats your money and spits out insults.”

Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t come to the realization that Rhea had already forever ago that Sideswipe just likes to push buttons. “You’re welcome,” he said, walking off with a cheerful salute. “Glad to be of service.”

Lucky for Sideswipe, her buttons were easily pushed.

“Be careful,” he added lightly as he walked off. “Pick me up again and I might start charging labor fees.”

“I will throw you down a garbage chute.”

“Promises, promises.”

She saw Prowl pinch the bridge of his nose, for lack of a better word, terminology-wise on her part. “Can we get back to the part where we’re forming alliances?”

Optimus brought things back, taking the advice. “In any case, we’re grateful for your discretion.”

Rhea straightened, her eyes earnest. “Please. I’m asking you not to say anything about them. To anyone.”

Her eyes met Astryd’s, then Nellie’s, then Madoc’s.

“Please.”

Madoc leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Are you kidding? This is awesome. You’ve got foot-tall alien robots with personalities and firepower and existential angst. This is like, top-tier weird. I’m in.”

Astryd’s mouth twitched. “That’s not the vote you were supposed to cast.”

“Too bad,” he chipped cheerfully. “I vote we have a bonding party.”

Everyone looked at him incredulously.

“…What?” Starscream voiced for everybody there.

“It is now.” Madoc sat up again, excited. “Lots of new faces, weird tension, mutual suspicion. Plus, we didn’t even get to celebrate Rae’s birthday properly.”

Rhea blinked. “That was like a week ago.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Time for a do-over since we were out on a mission. We’ll break out the snacks, have some drinks when the kids go to bed–bam. Team-building. Instant alliance glue. Works every time.”

Rhea’s breath hitched at the mention of a mission, glancing at the bots.

They didn’t say anything, nor react to the words, and she hoped it had gone over their heads.

Astryd gave him a sidelong look. “Are you just trying to justify the bottle of soju you keep in your gear crate?”

“Yes. And also I’m right.”

Prowl tilted his helm. “What exactly does this ‘bonding party’ entail?”

“You’ll find out,” Madoc said with a wink. “But first, we’re gonna mingle. Come on, Astryd. Let’s go meet the big guy who looks like he could punch through a wall.”

“You’re going to need to narrow that down,” Rhea muttered, eyes following them as he dragged her to the living room.

Then she noticed they were drifting toward where Grimlock was standing ominously beside the staircase. Astryd gave the bots at the table one last glance, eyes narrowing slightly on Soundwave, who had said nothing but watched everything, then followed.

Nellie lingered a beat longer, arms crossed as she had yet to leave the table.“You better know what you’re doing,” she told Rhea.

“I never do,” she sighed. “But I try.”

Nellie shook her head, standing up and going upstairs without another word. Her eyes followed her best friend, a frown playing on her lips as unease swirled in her stomach.

Jazz let out a low whistle once they were gone. “So... this your average Saturday in this world?”

Rhea looked around at the bots, the cartoons, the still-smoldering machine Wheeljack was “working on scraping for parts before throwing away.”

“…Yeah,” she said, lifting her cold coffee again. “Pretty much.”

---

The kids were finally down.

It took some tag-teaming–Rhea and Astryd handled bedtime routines while Elita and Chromia distracted the twins with a story, and Bee dimmed the lights, and even Ironhide helped by standing in the hall with his arms crossed until the kids took the hint and stopped sneaking out for “one more” anything.

Now the house was quiet.

Almost.

Downstairs, Madoc was already making noise in the kitchen, doing his best to be quiet.

“Alright,” he said, cracking open the hallway closet with dramatic flair. “Where are you, you beautiful bad decisions--aha!”

He pulled out a small box and started lining glass bottles along the counter with care that bordered on reverence.

Astryd was seated on a stool, leaned forward on her elbows, watching him with that unreadable half-smile she always wore around him. Like she’d rolled her eyes at least three times internally already, but didn’t actually want him to stop.

Elita, Chromia, and Ironhide were gathered near the island. None of them were sitting, but they weren’t exactly standing at attention either. Just… curious about what they were doing for this “bonding party.”

“So,” Madoc held up one of the bottles. “Real question. Can you guys actually drink any of this?”

Ironhide tilted his helm at it, as if reading the name on the front. “Your human’s high-grade? Nah. That’d fry our systems.”

Elita nodded in agreement. “Our systems reject it. High-grade is our version, but that’s back in our world.”

Rhea imagined it was in this world, but it wasn’t like they could go ask the Decepticons for it, much like the energon situation.

“Well,” She offered as she stepped into the room, having listened to the end of the conversation, “caffeine works as your refuel, right? What about energy drinks? Higher concentration than coffee. You might get a buzz.”

That caught attention.

Skywarp, lurking at the edge of the conversation with his trine, perked up visibly. “Wait. That gets us overcharged?”

“Depends on your intake ratio,” Elita calculated, suddenly looking concerned.

Starscream looked at Rhea. “Where are these... drinks?”

Rhea opened her mouth to answer but was beaten to it.

“Didn’t you get banned from getting any in your grocery intake because you had a severe addiction?” Astryd asked, her voice flat because she already knew the answer. What she wanted to know was how the blonde had any.

“Yup,” Rhea replied simply, already turning to head upstairs. “Bottom cabinet behind the cereal.”

“You hid them?” Madoc called after her.

“It’s my emergency stash.”

As the bots started shuffling toward the kitchen to investigate the stash, Rhea headed up the stairs. She needed to grab some more makeshift cups for the bots.

She opened her closet, noting Wheeljack and Ratchet on her desk, and crouched to pull out a case of arts and craft supplies behind a stack of old jackets.

Behind her, the soft hiss of whatever equipment Ratchet held drew her eye.

Ratchet was too focused on the diagnostic feed projected on his datapad to notice her, his optics flicking between vitals and waveform spikes. Wheeljack lay half-sitting on a book, plating marked with singe lines from the earlier explosion.

“You planning to monitor the situation downstairs,” Ratchet said without looking up, and it surprised as she had not expected him to say anything while looking so focused, “or let it escalate unsupervised?”

“Can’t I do both?” she joked while beginning to pick what she needed out of it, managing to hold all the small pieces in one hand and dig with the other.

“That’s not a responsible answer,” he replied flatly.

“I thought I was a youngling to you. I think that means I get a pass on responsibility.” She was just trying to be annoying, and Wheeljack chuckled as he watched both of them amidst this conversation.

Ratchet exhaled through his vents but didn’t rise to it. “If you get too overcharged, there will be the same consequences as the dumbafts downstairs.”

“Let ‘em have a little fun,” Wheeljack offered, voice light. “They’ve been cooped up long enough. If something explodes again, well, I’ll fix it.”

Ratchet shot him a sharp look and reached out to pinch a cable line along his arm, not hard, but enough to make him jolt.

“Ow! That’s abuse.”

“That’s restraint,” Ratchet retorted right back.

Rhea shook her head with a smile and stood, trying not to drop the little pieces in her hands until a quieter voice reached her from the doorway.

“You really weren’t going to say anything?”

Her eyes snapped to the doorway where Nellie stood, arms folded.

After a beat, trying to understand the nature of her words, Rhea softly replied, “I wasn’t hiding it.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” She was quick to defend herself. “It wasn’t exactly a plan. I just woke up one morning and they were alive. I think I’ve been more worried about how to handle this with… you know, everything.” She thought she was doing a damn good job at keeping it together despite how insane it all was.

Nellie looked away from her, jaw clenched. “You could’ve let me in. You trust the kids to keep the secret, but not me?”

“That’s not it,” Rhea furrowed her brows, visibly confused by this. “There was no choice but to tell the kids. They live here. And I was trying to protect the bots. And you. I didn’t want anyone getting dragged into something they couldn’t walk away from.”

“I wouldn’t have walked away. I've never walked away."

That landed harder than Rhea expected. “I know. I just…”

Nellie’s expression flickered, anger still there, but something softer underneath it.

Disappointment.

Rhea hated it.

“I’m not staying,” Nellie said after a pause.

Rhea nodded, though her chest tightened. “Okay.” Her voice was quiet.

“You always protect your space,” Nellie said quietly after turning toward the door, needing to get another word in for a reason no one knew. “Even if it means pushing people out. You’re good at it. You don’t even realize when you’re doing it.”

Rhea bit the inside of her cheek. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“You never are.”

The air between them stretched.

Finally, Rhea spoke, unable to help the apology that rolled off her tongue out of habit. “I’m sorry.”

Nellie merely gave a single nod. “Just… don’t make me the outsider again.”

And with that, she turned to go.

Rhea’s eyes followed her as she did so, knowing she was heading right out the front door.

Then they flickered toward Wheeljack and Ratchet, who had their optics on her, but they didn’t say anything.

Rhea straightened her shoulders, shoved it all down, and offered the room the best smile she could muster.

“Alright,” she said, far too chippy for the way she was just told off, “I’m heading downstairs. I hope you feel better, Wheeljack.”

“Feeling better already.” The mech offered her a smile.

“I’ll be responsible, Hatchet. Don’t worry.” She shot the medic a wink before walking out of her room, and the nickname was almost enough to forget about the conversation they just witnessed.

“Who told you that?”

“I can’t hear you!” She snickered as she walked downstairs, only to be greeted by an entirely different scene.

"Alright, everybody up!" Madoc called, waving a half-empty energy drink in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. "You too, bots. We're doing a shot together!"

Bumblebee and Bluestreak bounced into place with visible excitement. Knockout was taking a small cup from Rhea as she passed. Sideswipe smirked beside his brother, who looked rather unimpressed in contrast to his eager twin. Thundercracker and Starscream stood like they were pretending to be above it all, but their optics were locked on the energy drink bottles in curiosity. Chromia and Elita shared a look before shrugging and stepping up, while Ironhide watched with his usual gruff suspicion, empty cup in servo as she handed one to him too. Jazz leaned casually against the wall by the table, enjoying the view, though more than once, his visor flicked toward Rhea. Watching her laughter as she laid out the rest of the cups, Skywarp eagerly snatching one.

As for the others? 

Wheeljack, forced to rest for the night, was in the medbay with Ratchet and Prowl was cycling between all four younglings so the others could have some fun (he wasn’t interested). Grimlock was in recharge in the Autobot base, the same way Barricade and Soundwave hid in theirs for the night. And, of course, Primes don’t party. He was probably also in their little base.

Rhea lined up the plastic shot cups for the bots–thimble-sized, but to scale–and filled them with a near-lethal combination of triple-caffeinated energy drink, and for the humans, it was tequila and lime in a much bigger shot glass than the bots had.

"You’re sure this won’t, like, melt my energon filters?" Chromia asked skeptically, eyeing the liquid. She was worried it would screw up her systems, and what would she do if she wasn’t the fasted femme around?

"Only one way to find out," Skywarp chirped.

Madoc grinned as the three humans licked the tops of their hands.

Starscream’s faceplate scrunched, disgusted. “That is vile.”

Ironhide narrowed his optics at them. “Why are you grooming yourselves like an Earth beast?”

“It’s kind of like a chaser… but in the beginning. Goes with the lime.”

Madoc explained with a laugh as he began to pour some salt on where they had just licked, and it stuck in place.

“Your high-grade consumption comes with so many steps.” Knockout criticized.

"Okay!” The conversation veered back toward the task at hand, everybody holding their drinks.” On three! Table then back. One... two..."

"Wait!" Bluestreak interrupted, looking around. "What does table mean?"

"Tap it to the table, throw it back, slam it down. It’s like tradition.”

Astryd snorted. "That's just flair. The real tradition comes after."

Madoc held up a hand, stopping her from saying more. “No no no, don’t tell them. Let ‘em experience it.”

The bots exchanged uncertain glances until Madoc shouted, "Three!"

The humans licked the salt off their hands before joining all of them, the bots either enthusiastically or cautiously, hitting their little shot glasses on the table before downing them in a quick swig.

The reactions were immediate.

Knockout gagged. “That was offensive.”

Skywarp made a noise like a jet engine powering down. “Oh yeah, I feel it in my rotors.”

“Why is it sour?”

Bumblebee giggled. “I think I’m vibrating.”

Bluestreak was already pouring another. “It tingles! I like it!”

Chromia grimaced. “I almost forgot those two haven’t had a chance to have actual high-grade before.”

“Yeah,” Ironhide muttered, not at all affected by the taste or the way it caused their systems to spike, “Maybe best if they don’t have the real stuff.”

Rhea reached for a lime, squeezing it into her mouth quickly with her friends. “Alright, newbies. Now we dance."

“…What?” Starscream asked flatly.

Astryd was already pulling up the game on the TV, recordings since they didn’t actually have the game. “Tradition. You lose, you take a shot.”

Jazz smirked. “I like the sound of this.”

Madoc was already toeing off his shoes, ushering everyone to follow him toward the living room and asking Rhea for help moving the coffee table. “C’mon. Someone get ready to lose to Rasputin.”

Cut to about twenty minutes later with Madoc in the middle of the living room, on screen and on beat, arms flailing, hips attempting sorcery, legs doing something objectively illegal. The screen blared the thumping beats of Rasputin by Boney M, and Madoc was giving it everything he had.

The bots were in shock.

Bluestreak was doubled over laughing. Bumblebee was trying to copy the moves. Knockout looked like he was both horrified and deeply impressed. Chromia actually started scoring him, the competitive side of her joining them. Starscream was shaking his helm in disbelief while sipping again, muttering, “This species is fragged in the helm.”

Rhea and Astryd were half-fallen against each other, wheezing with laughter.

Jazz, still on the couch armrest, watched her from the corner of his visor, her blonde hair bouncing as she doubled over.

He smiled without meaning to.

“So you pick a character and follow their dancing? How does it score you?” Bluestreaker asked, uncertain and trying to understand the game.

“On how well you time it and get it right,” Rhea managed between cackles. “But we don’t have the actual remotes so we kinda judge who does better, the game is rigged in judging anyway. But the worse you dance, the more you drink. Which means you lose more if you lose rhythm when hammered.”

“Rhea doesn’t have that probelm,” Astryd laughed before calling out to Madoc, “you’re not even hitting it on time.”

“I’m expressing spirit!” he yelled back, drenched in sweat because this was quite possibly the longest song ever in the game with the hardest dance.

When he missed the final pose entirely and spun off the screen, but was deemed the winner by the spectators. He grinned, triumphant, as everyone who lost, including Skywarp, Knockout, Chromia, and Bumblebee, groaned and took another shot of an energy drink.

"Alright, alright," Madoc wheezed, swiping sweat from his brow. "Next round. Who’s up?"

Elita tried next and actually did... decently. Until Skywarp, newly buzzing with energy, stepped up and knocked into her mid-spin.

“Sabotage!” she shouted.

“Sore loser!” Skywarp sang.

A few mixers later, Rhea was starting to feel the burn, that loosened-up warmth curling behind her ears. Astryd was pink-faced and laughing, Madoc was clearly gone, and the bots were becoming increasingly fascinated with the idea of this game with their own buzz.

Jazz, lounging with his own thimble-glass, watched it all like it was a comedy show curated just for him.

The next round ended in another flurry of flailing arms and confused footwork.

Madoc clapped his hands loudly. “Okay! Time to bring out the secret weapon!”

Rhea narrowed her eyes at him, her endless tipsy giggles coming to an end. “Madoc…” It was a warning he ignored in favor of announcing…

“Ladies and gentlemen…mechs,” It was a quick correction, “I present to you: the Rhea Stiles!”

Astryd, Skywarp, Bumblebee, and Bluestreak whooped. “Let’s gooo!”

Madoc pointed at her. “Get your opponent!”

Rhea stood, swaying slightly, but found her footing quickly enough. “Fine. You want a show?” she huffed.

She scanned the room and landed on the most obvious choice.

“Sideswipe!” she shouted. “Get your aft over here.”

He raised a brow from across the room, leaned against the leg of the coffee table, which was used for the bots to sit on if the couch was too crowded. Ironhide and Sunstreaker had made it their permanent seat the entire time. “What for, babe?”

“I told you that I’d kick your ass in Just Dance, and I'm much better at this when I’m tipsy.”

He chuckled, sauntering over. “So this is revenge dance?”

“Purely righteous vengeance.”

Jazz leaned forward like he was watching pay-per-view. “This, I’m here for.”

Madoc spun her toward the game screen like a dramatic announcer. “One run for the road! C’mon, Rae, make it hurt!”

He handed her the bottle and she took a swig, then handed it to Astryd.

Astryd picked the song with a wicked grin. “Rich Girl, Fergie. It’s iconic..”

Sideswipe was all pumped up for a song he had never heard of, but she and Asytrd were already giggling away at the idea of him doing this dance in the game.

The music kicked in and they were off.

Rhea and Sideswipe hit the moves like they’d trained for it.

She swayed her hips with exaggerated flair, tossing her hair with the girl on the screen practically practiced given how often they had played this game.

Sideswipe was surprisingly coordinated, matching her beat for beat with that showboat confidence he weaponized in every room he walked into.

Their small audience lost it.

Bee was cheering and Astryd had tears in her eyes from laughing. Sunstreaker was openly hiding his faceplate like he couldn’t watch his brother be this ridiculous, swaying and moving a little perfectly to the promiscuous dance moves that he’d rather offline than be seen doing.

Jazz was wheezing. “Oh my Primus. Rae, you better bring it!”

“Trying!” she huffed, spinning with a giggle.

The two of them shimmied and stomped and snapped through the chorus, fully in sync–then broke apart for the solos, hamming it up with outrageous poses with little stumbles here and there from the drinks.

And when they had finished, they both collapsed on the floor laughing, completely breathless. Her cheeks were flushed red, both from the movement and the alcohol.

But no one could seem to decide on a winner. They were way too distracted by the entertaining performance they were just given.

“I won, clearly. Style points. Swagger. You name it,” he bragged smugly, vents still working overtime to catch up with his overworked systems. “Where’s my prize?”

She rolled her eyes, but with a laugh. “You’re such a sore loser.”

“Winner,” he corrected, beaming. “But sure, rub it in. A trophy would be ideal, but I’ll settle for a little recognition.”

Still laughing, she pressed her hands to the floor to sit up a bit and leaned in close to his tiny frame. With all the careless affection of someone just drunk enough to find it hilarious, she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek just to get the same reaction he always tried to get out of her for fun.

“There. Happy?”

Sideswipe blinked, then pointed triumphantly to his faceplate. “HA! I got a kiss! Suck it, losers!”

Jazz, still nursing his drink, rolled his optics hard. With dry amusement, he said, “Guess all it takes is getting her overcharged to earn basic affection. Try not to strain yourself with pride.”

Rhea wheezed with laughter and stood up before falling back into the cushions of the couch to make room for the next competitors.

She was soon giggling uncontrollably, volunteering to be the extra player with the trine who needed a fourth, after they finally convinced Thundercracker to do it.

Now, Madoc tried to explain the mechanics of arm circles to Starscream, who was currently locked in to the game’s choreography.

“Get your servo up, Screamer–like that, no, like that!”

“I am! This move is physically impossible!”

“I think it’s called a grapevine,” Astryd said helpfully, sipping from her spiked mixer and barely holding it together.

Thundercracker stood in the middle to the right of Skywarp, expression blank as he processed the movements for a moment through the chorus of “What Makes You Beautiful.”

Skywarp, meanwhile, was committing like his life depended on it, hips swinging dangerously close to a leg of the couch. He had the biggest grin on his faceplate, enjoying every second of this.

Starscream, for his part on the far right, looked like he wanted to explode but refused to be the first to give up, or lose forthat matter. His expression was entirely serious, a scowl, really, the entire time he danced.

Rhea was hitting every movement from the far left, having played this level over a thousand times, which allowed her to laugh through the whole thing at the bots beside

“Baby you light up my world like nobody else…” One Direction sang, which lead to a muted conversation she couldn’t process in the back of Bluestreak questioning what boy bands were. Not as the four of them were slowly coming to their knees with a single hand, or servo, dragging down in the air.

“That way that you flip your hair–” She made a point to roll her body, the same as Skywarp, as they all pointed inward, but fell into another burst of giggles at Thundercracker’s expression. She could only compare it to a serious smolder of sorts, like he was getting into character now that he had tracked all the moves. He nailed every single one now, surprising everybody. “Gets me overwhelmed.”

She was still giggling as the choreo went on, watching them from the corner of her eye as they slowly stood back up and hit another pose with the lyrics. Skywarp was putting so much sass into it, expressions and all.

“You don’t know-oh-oh! You don’t know you’re beautiful!”

All four bounced on their feet with an arm in the air as the words sang, “baby you light up my world like nobody else.”Then they had to drop their arm and shake their head downward, which she did dramatically with Skywarp. They both had shit-eating grins on their faces.

“The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed–”

The trine all turned with the character, one servo on the other’s shoulder-plates as they kicked their outward leg and free arm with the music outward for a few beats.

“OW! Watch the faceplate, TC!” was snapped when as they had turned, wide-spanned wings hitting each other.

“Watch where you’re turning!”

“I will kick you!”

“QUIET, both of you! I’m focusing!”

Rhea held the air, since she was a lot bigger than them… simply laughing as they hit the marks the best they could, Skywarp losing balance and fucking them up.

Then they kicked backward, a yelping leaving the purple Seeker as Thundercracker made a point to purposefully hit him with the dance move.

They were a disaster. An absolutely glorious, chaotic disaster that everyone was laughing at, even gaining chuckles from Ironhide.

“Okay, okay–” Rhea wheezed, wiping tears from her face. “I need–give me a minute–”

Thankfully, it was no longer her turn. She merely had a take a shot for losing, Starscream and Skywarp whining that Thundercracker was the winner.

“Bee! You’re up!” Madoc crowed, making it his mission to volunteer everybody during this game, but that was mostly because he was wasted. “Yellow for yellow!”

“Wait, what?”

Astryd grinned, already queuing up the next song.

A familiar ukulele intro began.

Bee stared at the screen in horror.

“Isy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini?!”

“Oh come on,” Rhea teased, clapping. “You’re the color-coded chosen one.”

“Why not Sunstreaker?” Bee demanded.

From atop the coffee table, Sunstreaker raised a middle finger without looking up from his drink.

Chromia, to make him feel better about it, stepped up beside him with a smirk. “Let’s do this. I’ve seen your moves with Raf on base.”

And they did.

The screen lit up with absurd poses–hips wiggling, jazz hands, shy little flails and leg kicks that looked vaguely like someone panicking in a tidepool.

Bee leaned hard into it, if only to save his dignity through total commitment, as much as his overcharged self failed to really nail the moves. Chromia followed the moves with intense focus, scoring way higher than anyone expected.

By the time the final pose hit, Bee dropped to his knees, wailing at the ceiling.

“I nailed that!” Chromia said smugly.

“You betrayed me,” he groaned.

“Buzz buzz, baby,” Knockout teased.

The drinks were flowing and the buzzes were real. Rhea started to notice that the glow in everyone’s optics looked a little… different.

Bluestreak’s were electric blue now. Bee’s had a shimmer to them.

The twins had an odd purplish tinge flickering in their optics. Not bright, not alarming. Just... noticeably different.

“Hey,” she murmured to Elita, who blinked, then looked at her casually from atop the back of the couch. “Your guys’ optics are changing.”

The femme looked around the room, narrowing her optics before nodding. “Doesn’t look like everybody’s yet. If I had to guess, it’s in the order we woke up.”

“Oh.”

But no one seemed concerned. They were laughing and dancing too hard. And Sideswipe had just lost another round and was pretending to melt into the carpet.

Rhea leaned sideways, trying to look around his visor.

“Hey, Jazz.”

He tilted his helm at her, having already been watching from the corner of his optic in a way she wouldn’t have noticed due to his visor. “Hm?” he hummed at her, smiling lightly as he noted her flushed cheeks and her dilated pupils that hid those greenish-blue eyes she had.

“Your visor ever come off?”

He shook his helm. “Not for parties.” Not at all, but he didn’t say that aloud in favor of the light joke.

“What color are your optics?”

“Blue.”

She gave him a look that screamed ‘no duh.’

“I wanna see your optics.” Rhea admitted, no filters due to being under the influence.

He chuckled, leaning closer as though it was a secret. “If I showed you, I’d have to offline you.”

She gasped, hand to her heart in mock hurt. “Rude.”

“Rules are rules.”

“Hmm…” She poked him lightly. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be some kinda dance master?”

“Am I?”

“That’s what Bee said when I asked about what you said, I can never tell if you’re entirely serious or not, y’know. And he said you were unbeatable.”

Jazz sat up, suddenly interested with a smirk on his dermas. “That so?”

She nodded, then stood, catching her footing before she could stumble. She then raised a finger directly at him as she bit back her chuckles. “I challenge you.” It had drawn the attention of the others with how loudly she announced it.

“Oh?” He didn’t bother hiding his own chuckles.

“If I win, I get to see your optics.”

Jazz smirked, leaning back with his drink. “And if I win?”

Rhea squinted at him. “What do you want?”

He shrugged all nonchalant-like. “Dunno yet. That’s part of the fun.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You’re buzzed and brave. That’s dangerous.”

But she didn’t hesitate even with the risk. “Deal,” she decided, sticking out her hand, holding out two fingers.

He grabbed the end of her two fingers, and they shook on it.

“Yo! Jazz versus Rae!”

“Oh this is gonna be good.”

“Ironhide, you seeing this?”

Ironhide grunted, but smirked knowingly as he sipped his drink. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Astryd flicked through the songs, some of the bots pointing out suggestions before they finally landed on one.

A gentle hum filled the air as Jazz and Rhea took the floor–the living room floor.

“You’re just too good to be true… Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

Jazz glanced at her with a small smile. “Really?”

“Dance, bot.”

The screen burst into color. The Just Dance silhouettes hit the beat with clean lines, slow sways with their arms. At first, it was gentle.

The bots cackled at the way Jazz didn’t even care about the movement of dragging his servo down his frame with the swaying.

Then it ramped up a little

“Pardon the way that I stare…”

Little servo movements fanned around the face as they walked in place.

“--else to compare…”

Rhea twirled with a laugh, barely catching the next step as she watched Jazz perform the yellow character’s solo bit that threw their arm up and then forward in a snap motion, and he hit every beat. Her balance wasn’t perfect, but she committed hard, swinging her arms and belting the words like she meant them.

Then it was her pink character’s turn as he fell back into the swaying beat.

“There are no words left to speak.”

Her right leg came forward, her arms moving in a circling motion around her hips with the slight fall and rise with the beat.

“But if you feel like I feel.”

They both got way too into it, walking around each other to switch places as their arms kept up with the movement.

“Then let me know that it’s real. You’re just too good to be true…” They each stuck out their opposite leg of each other with ease, smoothly dragging an arm up their leg, earning a holler from their audience.

Jazz danced with ease, loose-limbed and smooth. Each movement hit perfectly on cue. Like he wasn’t buzzed. Like he’d done this before.

Then repeated the same movement toward each other, but dragging downward this time. “Can’t take my eyes off of you…”

The room erupted as they began bouncing to the rhythm as the chorus hit, falling into synchronized jumps from side to side, ending with quick little ones with their arms above their heads/helms.

“They’re way too good at this for what?!” Bluestreak was in awe of how they did it like they had choreographed it themselves.

The jumps then turned toward one another, allowing her to look down and him to look up, and see the wide grins on their faces.

“Get it girl!” Astryd shouted back.

“Kick her aft, Jazz!”

“I love you baby! And if it’s quite alright…”

Rhea laughed, chest heaving, eyes wide as they began to hit that little upward and sideways snap. Jazz grinned back, optics hidden, but she could feel the mirth behind that visor. Their bet only made her dance harder.

They repeated the movements several times, the group cheering one or the other on, or simply hyping up how perfectly they did it.

“Oh let me love you, baby…” The characters had turned toward one another, locking outstretched hands, to which her and Jazz awkwardly paused and stared at one another.

She scooped him up suddenly, planning to apologize later for the man-handling, and letting her hold her thumbs while standing in her palms as she did a stumble of spin, “let me loveeee youuu…..”

When she had set them down, he openly laughed, catching his pedeing before falling back into the repeated movements of the rest of the dance.

“I love you baby! And if it’s quite alright–”

By the end, they followed the avatars’ for the big ending, which consisted of hopping around crazily, arms flailing wildly to the music as it faded, which her and Jazz did perfectly.

But the crowd had deemed Jazz won by a margin. Which was fair because she was so busy drunken giggling the whole time that she had missed a few steps and stumbled into them.

Rhea collapsed on the couch, giggling. “Okay. Okay. You win.”

Jazz took her hand as she offered it, setting him on the couch beside her with his visor glowing faintly. “Told you. Dance master.” He raised his servos in a ‘told you so’ manner.

“What now?” she asked, half-winded as the others were already scrolling through the next options. Chromia desperately wanted to win against Knockout.

He tapped his temple. “Don’t worry. I’ll save my favor for a good moment.”

“That’s so ominous.”

He just winked at her.

Somewhere behind them, the bots were already arguing about the next round.

“WHO picked Baby Shark?!”

“YOU’RE doing it, Skywarp!”

“Mutiny!”

Rhea threw her head back, laughing again.

And for one more night, she forgot all about her biological father and all the struggles on her shoulders, and not to her knowledge, how Jazz and the bots were piecing together the world they lived in was not as normal as she portrayed it.

Chapter 9: If Ya Wanna Be My Lover

Summary:

"I think Jazz should be Rhea's boyfriend 'cause he has a crush on her."

Two months had passed since the last chaotic night of Just Dance, though it was certainly not the last. The house had settled into something like rhythm, though Jazz would hesitate to call it peace. Peace implied stillness. This place was anything but still.

But in that time, Jazz had adjusted like most of his comrades as much as they sought to go back to their world. No doubt, there was much worry of where they had all gone, on both sides of the war.

He'd learned the house's corners, the kids' routines, the specific timing of Rhea's sighs before she inevitably rose to wrangle someone into bedtime or her struggle to wake up or not nap. The girl loved to sleep, he found.

It was in his nature to see how others ticked, figure people out, and file it away for when it may be of use. It has saved his aft more times than he could count knowing little tidbits of information others may not think twice about.

Calix and Cora had somehow formed a dual identity, even beyond their obvious twindom. It wasn't that they were inseparable–Cora was frequently off intimidating even the Cons with her suspiciously advanced vocabulary while Calixwas perfectly content lining his dinosaur toys in military formation under the couch as Grimlock led the charge–but their energy moved in tandem. They were each other's check-in, each other's mirror. Calix watched the world with cautious curiosity while Cora confronted it head-on with sharp words and furrowed brows, dragging her brother's silent observations into action. Even at their youngling age of six, they were already a force.

Jaxon was a wildfire, which also led to Rhea's explanation to Ratchet on ADHD, to which he had listened in on. The bots could only really understand it as a glitch in their own terminology, kind of like Prowl's glitch. And the kid liked to find new things to do, and if it was the same task, he had to switch it up. Jazz had walked into a room more than once to find Jaxon upside down in some elaborate pillow trap of his own design with a juice pouch in hand. The kid was loud, reckless, and absolutely certain he could fight a Decepticon with just a plastic sword and a high-pitched war cry.

Rowan was a bit different, but he knew that came with age. It was refreshing being around younglings. They had that innocent and overly trusting habit, which led to Jazz reading them like a book. Rowan, though, was at an age where he was beginning to figure out walls.

Nothing too hard for Jazz to figure out.

Rowan's silence had an intentional shape, crafted like armor. He didn't demand attention like Jaxon, or challenge it like Cora. He deflected it and absorbed it and folded it into something neat and controlled. Jazz had noticed it early on, the way Rowan could be present without really being seen. It reminded him of scouts he'd worked with during the war. Young, observant, already learning how to slip through shadows while noting everything around him.

But that only drew a professional like Jazz's attention.

And he began to notice the sudden changes, so small but a pattern he recognized all too well.

"Study group."

"Extra practice."

"Teacher wants me to stay for tutoring."

But one look at all his homework, courtesy of Jazz snooping, revealed blank work dating back about two months before their arrival. Nothing new ever came in.

He was still a youngling, so he couldn't hold it to him for the lazy work of hiding this, but he was curious as to what the kid was up to. Though, he supposed it wasn't that lazy if no one ever noticed.

Jazz had tried to get some answers, but he had smirked the first time he carefully dodged it in favor of changing the subject. The kid's been taking notes from Rhea.

It was the same kind of evasive cleverness she used when she didn't want to answer a question directly. Her fingerprints were all over this copied habit–a frustrating habit for him to deal with, as hypocritical as it may be.

Rhea hadn't said anything about Rowan. Not directly.

But Jazz had seen the way her gaze lingered on doors after the boy left. He could sense that she didn't quite believe him whenever he mentioned new "school stuff." Yet, she never confronted him.

But Jazz knew she knew.

She just let him think she didn't.

That kind of trust... it stuck with Jazz. It sat somewhere in his systems, unspoken and steady.

As much as he'd learned about the kids, the real shifts had come from within them. The bots as time advanced.

Piece by piece, they were getting themselves back.

First, their optics changed, which nobody was too worried about when Rhea first pointed it out while hammered. The next day, they took a closer look, taking notice that each of them were reestablishing their unique light signature, their hue. He found it hilarious when she had picked up Sideswipe, settling for glancing over at Sunstreaker, who she knew didn't like being touched, to get a better look at their unique shade.

"You have purple in your optics, blue-eyed grass," she had said. They had to ask for an explanation since their systems able to access the internet were down, only for her to explain that it was a purple-blueish and yellow flower, which only made Sunstreaker that much more annoyed.

Not to mention that she continued pestering to see his own optics that his visor hid with the flow of blue.

He asked why she wanted to know so bad, given she brought it up often, only to claim she was just as nosy as he was.

Then came their now fully-functioning systems, with it, commlinks. Thank primus, he praised. No more shouting across rooms or sending Jaxon running as a giggling messenger. They could speak to one another freely, even while separated.

Ratchet, predictably, had been the most excited. His scanners finally worked again. He'd nearly vibrated out of his shell when he got a reading off Cora that included "elevated sugar levels, low hydration, mild stress."

When he told her that, he made her sit on her bed so he could treat her. The restless youngling responded by dramatically downing an entire juice pouch in front of him and declaring herself cured, and bolting off.

Ratchet, after seeing the pattern, came to the conclusion that their frames were slowly becoming their real ones in order to adapt to this reality and their sparks (which were far too much to contain within plastic).

It had... freaked out Rhea and worried her greatly. She was the first to question if they were going to grow, which wasn't going to work for very long in their situation. According to her, secrecy was crucial. They agreed on that part, as overly secretive she could be about it all.

Ratchet eased her worries by telling her there was no indication they'd grow anytime soon, but he'd keep an optic on it. With his scanners, he could sense the pulse let out right before someone underwent a change of sorts, like their spark kicked a wall to make room in this fake frame.

It was only a matter of time before their frames transformed back to the proper material, which Optimus cautioned everybody, with Ratchet's worry in mind, to keep injuries to a minimum due to a lack of material to fix them.

They still had their arguments here and there that got more... heated than the average kind. It often led to late-night visits to the med-bay as Rhea slept, and she was none the wiser. She preferred they keep the peace, but what she didn't know couldn't hurt her.

And then... the EM fields returned last week.

Jazz hadn't been prepared for how intense it would be. No one had been.

Most humans, understandably, had no idea what that kind of emotional data dump felt like. They didn't know what it meant to walk into a room and feel the people inside of it. Not just sense their presence—feel them. Their joy. Their fear. Their exhaustion. Their everything.

For Cybertronians, it was a way of communicating without words. Humans had fields too, they just weren't in as tune with it as they were, though Rhea had brought up humans called empaths for comparison.

So, of course, humans were very loud with their unshielded fields. The moment the bots' fields turned back on, they slammed into a wave of unshielded, unfiltered human emotion.

And Rhea...

Rhea was a storm with structured chaos that so, so intense. She was a swirl of protective energy, always humming justbeneath her skin. But her field... it was shifting. It wasn't just her own anymore.

It carried the unmistakable signature of Ratchet.

They'd all laughed when the scans confirmed it. She'd rolled her eyes, arms crossed, and not quite knowing what that meant.

They had to explain that due to them not being in their actual frames, the training they had to suppress their signatures, field, etc, were not exactly in motion.

They were, which was poorly put in hindsight, leaking a type of radiation from their spark. It wasn't the same as the radiation they were familiar with, which Ratchet had to quickly explain in Rhea's panic.

Spark radiation was just uncontained energy that left traces around them. You could pin someone's location with a simple energon signature, and this would be worrying if not for the fact that they were in an alternate reality where it wasn't a problem.

Not to mention the kids and Rhea's fields were smothered in their energon signatures... The most prominent field that had been around them is what showcased the loudest.

It was akin to a Cybertronian's signature smothering a youngling's as a kind of warning.

The children had each mirrored a bot, their guardians.

But Rhea? She'd mirrored Ratchet, yes. But her field... it drifted sometimes. Echoed back toward Jazz, which he hadn't been expecting.

But with their fields activated once more, Jazz could read her now in ways he hadn't before. So there was a bright side to this.

He'd always been good at masks. Knew how to play whatever role was needed.

He often slipped into charm when it came to Rhea, trying to test the waters. She always raised an unimpressed brow and said something that cracked straight through the performance.

"Is that supposed to work on me?"

"Depends," he'd murmured once with a smirk. "Is it working?"

"No," she said, but her field pulsed with amusement.

But with the field, the things left unsaid rolled off of her in a way he could only interpret with no explanation at all. It made it a bit easier to read her, but it answered very few things.

Yet, somehow without a way to tap in his field dancing around hers, poking and prodding with interest, she'd turn around and surprise him... often.

She noticed things.

Not the big, dramatic tells. Not the sharp comments or exaggerated gestures he made in front of the others. No, Rhea zeroed in on the small things.

She noticed that he wore masks, which wasn't surprising. Many had taken that. Around Optimus, he was the serious third-in-command, with Prowl he was a pain in the aft, with the twins he was just as much of a jokester, around the kids he was bright and supporting, to Ratchet he was a nuisance that avoided check-ups and fucked with his tools, to her he was overally charming.

No, what threw him off was how she could so easily read him through those masks to him.

And she never called him out on anything she had taken notice of when there were others around. Only when it was just them. Like she knew, read him down to the fiber of his personality and decided, quietly, respectfully, not to humiliate him by doing it in front of an audience. She knew his pride ran high when it came to being perceived a certain way.

It rattled him more than he liked to admit.

Jazz wasn't easy to rattle. He was the mech you sent in when you needed someone smooth, someone unreadable. Someone who could perform six roles in the same conversation and walk out with a wink and a grin.

But then came the first time she said something so casually, without even looking at him when she did it.

"You only flip that little shoulder joint when you're lying."

He'd paused, visor still angled down, intake open with a quip halfway out. "Sorry?" That was a new observation, and he certainly hadn't expected it during her questioning about what he was up to.

She'd glanced up from her book, lounging sideways on the couch. "Your right one. It ticks outward just a little. Subtle. But it always happens when you're bluffing."

Jazz hadn't even realized it did that, and he was a damn good interrogator.

He'd deflected, of course. Smirked and said something like, "You sure you're not confusing me with Prowl? He twitches in four languages when he's about to crash."

She just smiled to herself and didn't answer.

And Rhea had noticed the tapping before he did, too.

Jazz had a rhythm of soft, barely-there taps along the side of his forearm. It wasn't conscious. Just something his digits did on autopilot, a quiet syncopation of thought and presence. A habit forged in downtime during particularly stressful undercover missions, sharpened during war briefings, smoothed out during years of pretending to be the version of himself that every room needed.

He tapped when his processor was multitasking under stress. Watching, listening, and processing things two layers beneath the surface. He wasn't checked out, never that. He was tapping to...well, to get out the stress when he couldn't turn to other methods. It wasn't often that it happened, as he was dangerously good at keeping completely still.

One time, she thought he was recharging, or dead, before his visor glowed brighter with his accompanying smile to let her know he was just chilling.

He hadn't even realized it until the day Rhea said something.

It was late afternoon. The twins were upstairs with Bumblebee, Rowan was out in the hallway playing some watered-down down kid-version of scout training that the kid was surprisingly good at, and Ratchet had taken Jaxon to the medbayto fish what looked suspiciously like glitter out of his ear canal thanks to an accident with Cora.

Jazz was perched on the end of the kitchen table, arms crossed, visor dim as he absently tapped that same steady rhythm. Rhea was leaning against the counter, sipping from a chipped mug with some sarcastic saying half-worn off. The room was quiet except for the occasional hum of the ceiling fan.

"I like that beat. It kind of reminds me of this song I know." she said, not looking up.

Jazz blinked, stopping his tapping in sudden awareness.

He froze for a half-second before letting his arm settle across his chassis, digits still. Not defensive, just... curious.

"You've been clocking that?" he asked lightly, trying to keep the tone somewhere between amused and unaffected.

Rhea just shrugged, joking, "It's hard not to. It's less scary than how you sit without moving for hours just watching all creepy-like."

She picked up a napkin and started wiping a few stray crumbs from the edge of the counter like she hadn't just pointed out a behavior no one had ever mentioned before.

Jazz watched her for a moment longer, visor unreadable. His processor ticked quietly behind the silence, running the playback, mapping out all the other moments she'd probably seen, things he hadn't realized he'd been giving away that no one else seemed to notice.

He leaned back slightly, dermas twitching. "Anything else I should know?" He kept his voice light.

"Probably." She smiled.

And that was it.

Rhea had made space for the truth, then left it untouched like he so often did to her.

It threw him.

Not because she was wrong, but because the noticing was natural. Like reading him wasn't a violation or a victory, just... something she did.

She knew how he wanted to be seen. And somehow, she still saw a version of him under all these masks anyway.

And maybe the part that truly got him?

She never asked him to explain it.

It was unsettling, sure. But it was also... steadying. Someone seeing him, not just the role. And saying nothing. Demanding nothing of him.

Simply knowing.

Rhea Stiles knew a lot, didn't she?

He hadn't realized how much he needed that until it was already there.

Two months. That's all it had taken.

And somehow, everything was different.

He would've let his processor keep wandering on it, caught in the memory like a vinyl skip, but reality hit him, literally,before he could.

A plastic poker chip ricocheted off of Starscream's helm with a sharp click, and Jazz ducked just in time to avoid it as it zipped past his visor and smacked the wall.

"I swear, Ironhide," Sunstreaker barked from the far end of the room, "If you throw one more thing, I'm shoving you in a drawer."

Ironhide just grunted and grabbed another chip.

Jazz shook the moment off, laughter bubbling in his vents as Starscream flared his wings and screeched indignantly about "barbaric party etiquette" and "primitive games of chance."

It was a mess, but it was a good mess.

They were calling it "Guys Night" or "Mech Night," as Madoc had insisted with far too much energy.

Most of the kids were downstairs with them, curled up or scattered between couch cushions and soft blankets. Calix had claimed one of the game controllers and was currently trying to explain to Sunstreaker why stealth mattered in a shooter. Jaxon was loudly narrating everything he did in his match, most of which involved sprinting directly into walls or launching grenades at his own team while Bumblebee cheered him on and offered tips. Rowan, of course, sat off to the side, not saying much, but watching.

Always watching.

You'd think the kid was Rhea's biological kid, though not possible.

Wheeljack was continuing to work on the ground bridge of sorts in the living room, where Prowl was currently monitoring work with a data pad in servo.

Madoc had a beat-up deck of cards spread across the table, poker chips in piles, and quite a few cups at different levels of empty and full around the table for the mechs that wanted to play.

He insisted on this because he had previously been the only male to be a part of the little group and usually spent the night babysitting while the girls had exiled all of them downstairs.

They'd only recently discovered that the last day of every month had been silently marked "Girls' Night"–a sacred event protected by giggles, locked doors, and a rotating roster of bathrobes and nail polish. Or so they had heard from the internet. None of the males or mechs really know what went on behind that door.

Ratchet, predictably, gave her a big fat no when Rhea demanded to use the med-bay the first time they discovered this tradition. It was her room after all.

"This is my medbay."

A short bicker, mostly from her end, ended up with her putting her foot down with an argument he couldn't possibly deny.

"You're a foot tall, Ratchet," Rhea had fired back with arms crossed. "What are you going to do? Raise your voice an octave?"

Girls night was now being held in the twins' room after losing that battle.

So now they could hear the faint laughter of the girls upstairs–soft music, an occasional burst of shrieking laughter that made Cora shout something unintelligible about "the forbidden glitter drawer." The mechs downstairs half-listened while pretending they didn't care. Most of them didn't, but the nosy ones of the bunch or the dramatic ones took it to sparkevery month without fail.

"She used the phrase 'emotional exfoliation," Bluestreak said with reverent horror before bowing his helm in shame. "I didn't even know what that means."

Jazz tossed a chip into the center pile. "I wouldn't worry too much, Blue."

Then Sideswipe came pouting down the stairs not a second later, shoulders sagging dramatically with the heavy thuds of him slowly hopping down each step before trailing over to the table. "Failed again."

Everyone laughed.

"Didn't even make it past the doorway this time," Sideswipe grumbled, climbing up to sit on the table like a wounded dog. "Cora told me boys are gross and slammed the door."

Madoc waved a hand. "At least she talked to you. I walked in earlier by accident to ask Asytrd something was verbally assaulted."

"Rightfully so," Ratchet grunted from where he sat in the corner with Optimus, both pretending not to be listening while they discussed quiet matters.

Sideswipe huffed, throwing his helm back dramatically as the game continued on. "I just don't get why Knockout gets to be in there!"

Skywarp chuckled knowingly, drawing all their optics. "He made a deal."

That turned helms.

Jazz looked up with lazy interest. "What kind of deal?"

Skywarp shared a look with his trine, Thundercracker just vented with the shake of his helm, and then the purple mech grinned. "One that'll get him into the most high-security event in this whole place."

"You're joking," Bluestreak gasped.

Jazz laughed, leaning back on his servo, visor flickering in amusement, but his thoughts wandered again for a moment. Upstairs, where the girls were.

Where Rhea was.

And where Nellie was.

He still didn't get it.

The way they'd snapped back after that night. After that moment in the medbay. The heavy tension was undeniable andsome hard words were spoken. He'd heard enough to know it hurt and that something between them had cracked. Or perhaps traced even more cracks into existing ones.

But the next day?

Nellie came over to help make pancakes and they threw back on their smiles and joked like best friends.

It was like it hadn't happened.

Jazz didn't know if that was human resilience or stubborn avoidance, but Rhea seemed lighter now. Whatever it was... they'd chosen to move on even if only a silent band-aid was sitting atop a still bleeding laceration.

He was distracted again. Enough that he didn't catch the next thing Madoc said until halfway through it.

The game was in full swing again, chips clinking, Madoc shuffling horribly, and Starscream loudly accusing Ironhide of "rigging the deck" for the fourth time despite not understanding the rules himself.

Jazz had half a hand and three-quarters of a processor on the game. The rest of his attention was drifting, like it did sometimes, especially when something didn't sit right.

His gaze slid across the ceiling, then to the wall, then back down to the overly big cards in his servo.

Which reminded him.

Still no windows.

He hadn't noticed it right away, but there had been murmurs of how they all thought it was weird that the lighting in the house never changed. It didn't dim with dusk or brighten with morning. It was steady in a way that felt too carefully disguised with clutter and color. It was kind of like being back at the silo they called a base hidden deep in a mountain with no windows, and the familiarity made it fly right over their helms in the beginning.

The reminder he gave himself and Madoc sitting in front of him with a struggling poker face, no Rhea expected anytime soon to interrupt, he snatched the opportunity.

"Y'know, funny thing," he said casually as he leaned forward slightly and flicked a chip toward the center pile, sliding himself another card from the deck, "I don't think I've seen a single window in this place."

Madoc was chewing on a cheese puff at the time and gave a slow, one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah, I guess."

"That normal?" Jazz asked as if it was just a casual question, keeping his tone light.

Bluestreak perked up beside him, already halfway into his ration of coffee. "Wait, he's right. There's no windows. None. Not even like, basement-style slits. How odd for human housing." He was perfectly oblivious to the realization that a few of them, like Jazz, had come to already.

Skywarp, pedes up on the table like he owned it, raised an optic-ridge. "Yeah, you've got a pretty high-tech setup for a place with no natural light."

Thundercracker, seated beside him, didn't say anything, but tilted his helm a little, as if to silently agree.

Madoc set down his cards. "You all make it sound like that's weird."

"It is weird," Sunstreaker stated as if it was a concrete fact from where he listened a few feet over on the couch, "Don't act dumb." The mech didn't beat around the bush and was getting annoyed with how his comrades did.

Jazz gave Madoc a lazy grin as a way to dampen how harshly the frontliner came off, visor dim and trying to recover the opportunity to get him to open up and spill. "Just makin' conversation, Madoc. Mech-to-Mech."

Madoc hesitated. He didn't look nervous, just more like he was weighing his words. Jazz knew that look and waited patiently for him to speak as the male cracked under the pressure.

"I mean..." He sighed for a moment, "Look ,you've probably got suburbs where you're from, right? Houses, garages, lawns? At least for the humans around you?"

"Driveways," Sideswipe piped in like he needed to repeat the word out loud to remember what it was, from where he was now sprawled back dramatically atop the table, still recovering from his ejection upstairs. "Yeah, I think I've seen 'em around town with the fleshies.

Optimus glanced up from the corner where he was half-watching, half-monitoring the conversation between him and Ratchet falling short.

Jazz gave a nod. "Yeah. That's 'bout right."

Madoc picked at a chip crumb stuck to the table. "That's not really how it is here."

There was a pause, not the kind that choked a conversation but the kind that gently redirected it.

Jazz leaned his elbow on the table, voice smooth as he itched for more. "So what is it like here?" Who was he to stop the conversation of useful leads right there?

Madoc didn't answer right away.

He looked toward the ceiling, toward the muffled laughter still echoing down from upstairs where the girls and femme'snight was in full swing.

Then he looked back down. "Different," he said finally.

"Different how?" Thundercracker questioned, but it was easy, almost distracted, like he was half into his cards.

Madoc shrugged. "Your people probably have public schools. Streets. Neighborhoods. Stores. They go to school or work. Come home to families. Repeat the same boring day over and over. That's not how things are outside of here."

"Outside where?" Jazz pressed, voice still quiet.

"Just... out. Away from here." Madoc was tiptoeing, which was frustrating. He didn't give a direct answer, and it was making this all the more complicated.

The bots exchanged a glance, silent but not surprised. Jazz didn't push, not directly. That wasn't how this worked, and that decreased the effectiveness of getting everything out that he could.

"Are we underground?" Skywarp asked out of nowhere as he tossed a chip in the air, not reading the room at all. He was whacked by one of his brothers for being so upfront.

Until Madoc paused. "I'm not supposed to say," he admitted, finally. "Rhea's been real clear about that."

Jazz raised his brow ridge behind the visor. "But?"

He only smiled sheepishly. "I'm not great at keeping secrets when people don't ask directly."

Sideswipe snorted at the implication he was trying to get across.

The subtle loophole was suddenly obvious.

Jazz's visor flashed briefly, amused by such a tactic that couldn't be thrown back in his face, hopefully. "Then good thing we haven't asked anything direct, huh?"

Madoc considered that before giving a slow nod. "Yeah. Good thing."

"Well... we don't have windows 'cause we live on a base."

The table went still.

Poker chips froze mid-toss. Sideswipe paused in the act of scooting back toward Bluestreak's cards for a peek. Skywarp blinked slowly, as if trying to make sure he'd heard that correctly.

They all slowly turned toward the bright and innocent boy they hadn't realized had been listening. Even Wheeljack and Prowl, who had stopped their work.

Madoc gaped with his eyes wide. "Calix." They were supposed to be indirect, but no one had factored the six-year-old into the conversation.

"What?" the boy asked, genuinely puzzled. "You told them stuff 'cause they asked. So I'm telling them, too. You're being too confusing."

Madoc looked like he was going to combust on the spot.

"You said a base?" Starscream asked for clarification purposes.

Calix, meanwhile, was sitting up on his knees now, cheeks puffed with chips he snatched from the coffee table. "It's not a big deal. Everybody lives on bases. That's where the safe zones are. That's why there's no windows." He pointed vaguely upward like he was proud to remember and know so much. "They can't hit you from the sky if they can't see you, right?"

Nobody moved. Not even Jaxon or Rowan.

They knew they weren't supposed to say anything. Jazz figured that out a long time ago when trying to dance around and asking them more. The twins never quite understood what answer he was looking for, and Jaxon and Rowan were good at zipping their lips shut and running off to do something, all because Rhea had asked.

Now that they were being direct, a tactic he probably should've considered but decided against in favor of staying on Rhea's good side and not getting the poor kid into trouble, he spilled everything easily. What six-year-old wouldn't whentheir favorite characters that had come to life were asking so nicely and he was so excited to share. He liked to help.

Optimus had slowly turned his full attention toward the child. "Calix," he said gently, "why do people live underground?"

"'Cause of the war," Calix answered easily, as if that should've been obvious. "We can't live above ground anymore because it's too dangerous. We don't go up unless we have to, and not even Rhea does." To him, knowing not even Rhea was allowed up there meant it was a big deal. Every kid in this house looked up to her. So if she wasn't allowed to do something? They definitely wouldn't be caught doing so.

Madoc was frantically trying to shush him now, muttering, "Stop talking–"

But Calix was still going, soft and chatty, like he was explaining the plot of a cartoon. "There used to be cities! But the bad guys broke most of those. Not your bad guys," he clarified, squinting at Skywarp, "our bad guys. Our Decepticons. The really mean ones. But not you guys! TC and Soundwave are always nice to me!" He smiled brightly at that fact.

The ones mentioned had just blinked, too startled to look offended.

Bluestreak whispered, "Did he just say their Decepticons?"

They were under the impression they were fictional characters from a TV show. No one realized these were... based on life. The fact was a daunting one, and they all struggled to process it. Jazz could see Prowl begin to twitch the longer the conversation went on.

But there was no mention of the Autobots being in their world in his words.

That led to the big question.

Optimus' voice was calm but intent. "Calix... Are there Autobots in your world?"

"Oh," Calix said, tone light, "they died a long time ago."

A quiet wave of shock rolled through the room. You could've heard the drift of one of the cards hitting the floor, the muffled music upstairs now very distant.

There were no Autobots in this world. There was nobody fighting the Decepticons to protect Earth. Is that why things were the way they were? Why the humans lived in literal societies underground in bunkers?

Optimus' voice remained steady. "All of them?"

Calix nodded, like it was just another bedtime story. "A long time ago. Before we were even born. Even Rhea!"

Rowan stepped in suddenly, a lot more knowledgeable about the situation. "Look, you guys apparently died before your kind reached Earth. We only know about the Autobots because of some tapped memories in dead Decepticons. I guess the toys, the tv-shows, giving people the Autobot "good guy" helped people cope."

The Decepticons exchanged thoughtful looks, considering the words and how there were literally alternate versions of themselves in this world. A world with no Autobots. It was...intriguing.

Madoc groaned into his hands. "Rhea is going to kill me."

"Why didn't... Why didn't Rhea tell us?" Bumblebee asked suddenly from the living room, having been playing with the kids before the turn of events.

"She didn't tell us to lie," Rowan said quickly, finally stepping in as the oldest. "She just wanted to protect you. All of you. She didn't want to pull you into a reality that wasn't your fight and just wants to help you get home..."

Jazz leaned forward, visor dim. "Then whose fight is it?"

Rowan glanced at Calix, who was already distracted by making towers out of poker chips since wandering over to the table.

"Ours," he said simply. "We already have a war to return to. This one... this one was never supposed to involve you."

Optimus' gaze didn't waver. "But we are involved now."

Another silence.

A beat.

Then two.

Calix popped another chip in his mouth and looked around, cheerfully unaware of the gravity in the room. "But we have big robots of our own to fight so we're okay. You're too little to help."

Madoc groaned again, louder this time, dragging a hand down his face.

"Oh no," he mumbled. "She is definitely going to kill me."

Jazz leaned in slightly, visor glowing brighter now.

"Tell us more."

---

Upstairs, it was a different world entirely.

Warm light from a long strand of pink-tinted fairy lights wrapped around the perimeter of Cora's side of the room. The floor had been swallowed whole by a nest of pillows, fuzzy blankets, her barbie beanbag, and at least one oversized stuffed dinosaur of Calix's. Someone had sprayed glitter spray in the air an hour ago, and the scent still lingered faintly. The room reeked of some type of berry and vanilla.

The stereo, a little beat-up cube that had clearly survived multiple battles with toddler hands, was pumping out peak 90s girl power. Lip glosses and face masks were scattered across the floor like war loot thanks to Astryd, as these nights had always been about giving Cora that sisterhood dream she wouldn't have otherwise.

It was Girls' Night.

Cora had declared it sacred when Asytrd introduced it. And it was even more so now that her favorite femmes were invited.

Elita-One sat perched on top of the bean bag beside Chromia, Asytrd's head below them as she leaned back with her legs crossed over each other on the floor. Nellie was lying on her stomach, arms folded under her chin, while Rhea sat in the middle of the group, criss-cross style and fully watching Knockout with a look halfway between amusement and pity.

Knockout stood awkwardly in the center of the room, in front of them with a servo on one hip, optics narrowed.

Beside him, Cora danced like her life depended on it, bopping her head and wiggling her shoulders to the thumping beat of "Wannabe" by Spice Girls. He couldn't say he had ever heard the song before, but clearly, they all looked to be anticipating him fulfilling his end of the deal with amusement.

"I still don't understand why this is my test," he said flatly.

Rhea raised an eyebrow, smirking over the rim of her drink as she sipped the juice box Cora had handed out to all the human girls. "You volunteered to come up here, remember? This is the price you pay."

"I thought there'd be some care for my finish, not choreography."

"Femmes Night is earned," Elita chimed, smirking, unlike Chromia, who didn't bother biting back her shit-eating grin. "Put in the work."

"You promised me polish," Knockout commented dryly, staring at Cora's full-body shimmy. "Not... this." The deal was to dance with Cora, who was dying for somebody to dance with her since she missed the Just Dance night, which she couldn't attend with the amount of adult intoxication going on.

The femmes were gonna, but Knockout was so keen on going to the next one. Who were they to pass up on this?

"You get polish after the dance," Chromia grinned as she added, "Shake it!"

"Yeah!" Cora echoed, eyes gleaming with excitement. "C'mon! Shake it!"

Knockout vented dramatically. "I am a war-medic.I once performed field repairs during an orbital descent–"

"Just do it," Rhea said with the full confidence of someone who knew he would.

And he did. Sort of.

He attempted a shimmy. Or something like the one Cora was pulling off. It mostly looked like his helm was trying to sync with the music while his torso rebelled against the concept of rhythm. It gave him the grace of a dog shaking off water.

"There ya go!" Rhea grinned, nodding along encouragingly despite this.

Astryd held up her juice box like some sort of cheers, the femme and girls giggling as he went on.

Rhea coached like some sort of dance teacher. "Loosen up! Feel it!"

"More hips!" Chromia shouted, just to get more of a show out of this.

Knockout glared at his lower frame like it had personally betrayed him. "I don't have hips the way this youngling does."

"Make them," she declared.

He tried. He really did. His hands stayed planted on his hips while his waist gave the most reluctant wiggle imaginable.

He looked up as he did it, as if checking for divine assistance.

"Less hips," Nellie coughed gently.

"A little less," Elita said, biting a smile.

Rhea burst out laughing, nearly spilling her drink.

But then the chorus hit again, and Knockout snapped to attention.

Something must've clicked because he did a lot better at mirroring Cora's little spin, hit the beat just right, and let his frame sway. He wasn't graceful, but he was committed, and that, somehow, made it work.

Then the music dropped to the bridge, and all bets were off.

Astryd began to laugh with the shake of her head, having no time to warn Chromia and Elita, "Oh, here we go."

There wasn't time to ask because Cora clapped to the beat and yelled, "Now!!"

Together, Rhea and Nellie locked eyes and pointed at each other, breaking into the rap with absolutely no hesitation despite being in such lazy positions:

"So here's the story from A to Z, You wanna get with me, you gotta listen carefully–" Rhea started without missing a beat.

"You got M in the place who likes it in your face," Nellie followed.

"You got G like MC who likes it on an–" Rhea fumbled, laughing, "Okay, not that part."

"Easy V doesn't come for free!" Nellie belted, flicking a strawberry lip gloss into the air like a mic.

"She's a real lady, and as for me–HA! You'll see!" Rhea swayed her head back and forth, blonde strands falling messily into her face as she sang at a very confused Knockout mid-dance.

"Slam your body down and wind it all around!" they both shouted.

"SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND ZIG-A-ZIG–AH!" Cora shouted the big finish, throwing her arms up in a final pose that Knockout tried to copy.

The room exploded into applause, shrieks, and laughter, clapping for them as Knockout collapsed onto the dinosaur stuffie, fanning himself with exaggerated flair, which was more for effect given his frame cooled down by venting.

"Lovely," Knockout vented after a moment. "Do I get a badge or just judgment from Ratchet when he finds glitter in my vents?" The glitter spray might've been from Cora, who was so happy he was joining, but deemed he needed some glitter to join the girl-ness. Surprising all of them, he wasn't that opposed to the glitter on his finish or the scent it left behind. Though he did purge his vents a few times in a Cybertornian's version of a sneeze.

"Both," Rhea said sweetly.

The music bled into the background as the femmes and girls fell into a short interlude of face masks and hair braiding that Cora directed. She always directed these nights, and nobody seemed to mind.

Cora was working on Rhea now, carefully brushing her hair back while Chromia started helping with eyeliner.

"We're gonna doll you up," Cora said solemnly. "You're gonna be popular."

"Help me, Glinda," Rhea muttered, her smile turning into a quick cringe as the brush bonked her head a bit too hard.

"You have to grin and bear it," Astryd said with mock sympathy, holding out lip gloss.

"I am bearing so much."

"You're bearing beauty," Astryd said helpfully.

"Let it happen," Chromia added, helping Elita polish her finish.

Nellie, sprawled on her stomach nearby, glanced over with a giggle. "At least it distracts from those undereye shadows."

There was a pause, barely more than a breath, as Elita's servo slowed slightly and Chromia raised a judging optic-ridge with zero filter to hide her faceplate.

Rhea just hummed and reached for a bottle of glitter. "Might as well sparkle while I'm tired."

The tension passed like a ripple no one wanted to name.

Then came the inevitable girl-talk shift, Cora switching the subject out of boredom. She liked to recreate scenes she had seen in movies or shows downstairs, hence the new subject.

"So who's your crush?" Cora asked innocently, eyes wide. Her tone gave valley-girl, and Rhea was seriously consideringchecking what she was watching.

Chromia mouthed the word crush, trying to understand the word in this context, but Elita connected the dots. She smiled. "Well, my sparkmate is Optimus, sweetspark." Cora gasped in excitement.

Rhea raised a brow at that word. "Wait, sparkmate?"

The hot-pink femme nodded. Her tone shifted immediately. It was still warm, but with that layered kind of reverence only Cybertronians seem to carry for things like this. "A sparkmate," she began, "is someone you share half your spark with. Not metaphorically, but literally. Our sparks are who we are. And when we choose a sparkmate, we give them a part of ourselves... and they give a part of themselves back."

Cora's head pops up excitedly."Like friendship?" she offers with a lisp, nose crinkling thoughtfully.

Elita smiles gently. "More than that, little one. It's like... the strongest bond we can form. It's forever. You trust them with everything you are."

Chromia leans forward, resting her elbow on her knee. "The closest human comparison would be marriage, but sparkmates go deeper than that. You don't just live with them, you feel them. Even when they're far away. You always know when something's wrong. When they're happy. When they need you."

"So it's like mind-reading?" Rhea asks, wide-eyed at the intrusiveness.

"More like... spark-sharing, but I suppose sharing thoughts does translate over." Elita replies. "A bond is the deepest connection you can make, and it's what makes a pair sparkmates. Suddenly you are able to share every thought, feeling, and other little things. You can't hide from your sparkmate. And you don't want to."

Astryd flips herself upright with a little thump. "Okay, wait, that's kind of adorable. Humans get breakups and alimony. It's pathetic in comparison."

"Wait till you hear about spark calls," Chromia jokes, smirking faintly.

Rhea blinks. "What's that?"

"It's when your spark starts reaching for the one it's meant to be with," Elita explains as shortly as possible. "Even if you don't know who they are yet, your spark does. It begins to... ache. Long for something. For someone. It's rare, but when it happens, it's undeniable."

"So, like... soulmates?" Rhea clarified softly.

"Yes, but your sparkmate isn't just some random match. They're your other half. You protect them with everything you have, because you only get one."

Cora gasped dramatically. "Only one?!"

Astryd laughed slightly.

Meanwhile, Rhea leaned back, visibly swept up in the idea. "That's... so much more romantic than anything I've ever heard."

Nellie, who's been quiet, finally had something to add. "That's cute and all," she said, "but I kind of like that humans can fall in love more than once. You don't have to get it perfect the first time. You get to change. Figure out what works. Reinvent yourself."

Chromia tilted her helm. "So you'd rather not have one true bond?"

"I'd rather have options," Nellie answered, breezy but honest. "I like choosing someone every day. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Sparks sound permanent. Humans... we're more adaptable."

"Or just non-committal," Astryd mutters under her breath, still tied up on the idea of sparkmates. It was a very enviable concept.

Nellie grinned without looking up. "Tomato, tomahto."

Rhea hummed softly, thoughtful at the idea, but had her own thoughts on the matter. "I guess I like the idea of something... lasting. Something that's not so easy to walk away from. Kind of like an invisible string that ties you to someone, which is nice to think about even if humans don't have the same thing."

Elita glances at her, studying her for a beat before replying.

"Then you'd understand sparkbonds well. They're not about perfection. They're about permanence. About choosing to protect someone else's spark like your own. And who's to say humans aren't capable of such invisible strings? I've always believed it's about listening to your spark, cause I've seen many bots fail to listen to their own"

"It was almost Chromia and Ironhide who wouldn't listen," Elita teased, glancing at Chromia, who's smirk grew wider at the memory. "They used to hate each other. He called her a glorified wrench with attitude."

"He fell first," The blue femme added smugly.

Asytrd nodded at the thought. "I can see that."

Knockout dramatically placed a cucumber slice over one optic. They all kind of forgot he was there until now, given how silent he's been in letting the exfoliating mask smeared on him by Cora sink in. "I envy you all. I am a glamorous, complicated being and thus doomed to be sparkmate-less. If only Breakdown were here, he'd get it."

"Oh, please. It's like he doesn't hear himself."

Everyone laughed.

Then Cora, casually eating a strawberry and applying a glitter star to Rhea's temple as she continued her little makeover, said, "I think Jazz she be Rhea's boyfriend cause he has a crush on her."

Rhea visibly froze, snapping open her eyes meant to be closed for application. "What?" Thank god she wasn't stabbed in the eye with a flimsy makeup brush.

All optics turned toward the little girl who remained oblivious, continuing. "I heard Chromia say he looked out for you."

"You heard me say that?"

"Yep! To Hide!"

Rhea brought her fingers to the ridge of her nose.

Meanwhile, Elita leaned in, grinning and all the more encouraging of this. "Well, now I'm interested. Go on, Cor."

"He listens when she talks," Cora said seriously, having come to these inclusions once the idea was in her head. "And he stands closer to her than anyone else. That's what they say in movies means you like each other."

"That... is kind of how it works," Knockout admitted, unable to find the obvious flaws with such an argument. "Unfortunately."

Astryd chuckled, and to Rhea's embarrassment, added to the argument for the fun of it, "Honestly? Jazz has that look when she walks in. The 'I know I'm being watched and I like it' vibe. It's cute."

"I can't date Jazz," Rhea said quickly to the little girl, trying to shut this down before her cheeks got redder. In her mind, she'd convince herself that it was just blush. But these kinds of things always made her awkward, even if it was just a joke.

She had to shut down the idea, even if the femmes and girls having fun, because god knows how it would spiral in this house.

Cora frowned. "What? Why not?" And suddenly her voice got a little quieter. "If you date Jazz, doesn't that mean he has to stay here?"

The room sobered, just a little. The realization of the intention hit them.

Cora played with a piece of her braid, face crumpling slightly. "If he stays, then... they don't go home. They can stay here forever, right?"

There was a moment as Rhea composed herself, feeling her heart ache at the words, before she forced a gentle smile.

She could drop the reality that they couldn't keep the bots here just because they liked them or got attached... They had lives and responsibilities they were taken from. Not to mention, they were slowly transforming back into themselves, which wouldn't go over well here.

They had to go home.

She'd certainly want to go home if she were in their shoes–er, pedes. If the kids were waiting for her like the bots and people they had waiting for them?

But this was a six-year-old girl who still believed in Santa Claus. So, she came up with an excuse on the spot as to why they couldn't date, completely leaving out that he was Cybertronian and she was human, since Cora seemed not to see an issue. "Well... Jazz hasn't shown me he loves me. That's what you're supposed to do first, right?"

The femmes all knew it was deflection. Every single one of them heard the lie in it, but they let it slide for the obvious reason why.

"Then he better get to work," Chromia joked, bringing that light air back and making Cora feel better.

"Or else we find you someone new," Knockout added, not glancing up from the microfiber towel hilariously big for him as he meticulously wiped away the mask, "With taste."

"Sideswipe thinks he's first in line."

"She can do better."

Cora relaxed again, giggling. "Okay... but I still think you'd be cute."

Rhea gave a dramatic groan and let her head fall into the nearest pillow lying on the floor. "Do my makeup on the floor, sweetie. My back hurts." From carrying this entire household and preventing it from falling apart in a mini Autobot-Decepticon war or combusting in a fiery explosion–kudos to Grimlock and/or Wheeljack.

"Okay!"

And she remained oblivious to what was happening downstairs, the truths unraveling as they spoke.

Up there, the music kept playing, the glitter kept spreading, and Girls' Night continued in full force until tomorrow came, when an entirely new problem would be thrown in her lap.

The problem was already being relayed via bond with Elita and Chromia, who shared a thoughtful look.

Tomorrow would be quite the day. 

Chapter 10: A Girl Worth Fighting For

Summary:

"You're worth fighting for, you know."

It was too quiet.

Rhea padded downstairs wearing butterfly-patterned socks and an old hoodie that hung off one shoulder. Her eyes were half-lidded, her face soft with sleep, and she moved like someone still chasing the tail end of a dream.

The kids were up and getting ready for school, courtesy of the bots helping her get them up and going. Rowan was telling Calix to put his shoes on, and Cora was asking Bumblebee if he remembered where she put her pencil case, to which Sunstreaker ended up telling her as monotone as ever as he passed by. Jaxon was running upstairs past her with a quick good morning, wanting to show Chromia something.

But she couldn't help but feel like it was a scene waiting for its cue.

Something was off...

Knockout glanced at her and immediately looked away when she walked downstairs. Chromia offered a soft smile that didn't quite reach her optics as she trailed upstairs to where Jaxon was. Even Skywap, usually the one cracking jokes or giving her a headache from the moment she woke, had barely said a word as he flew right past, his trine members guiding him away.

Her brows furrowed.

They were definitely acting weird.

Leaning casually against the wall while on top of the counter with his arms crossed, expression smooth. There was a faint smile on his faceplate. "Morning, sweetspark." he offered, voice dipped in honey and trouble.

"Mm," she murmured, squinting at him as she grabbed the coffee pot upon realizing their container of it was running low. "You're following me around a bit early."

Jazz tilted his helm with a casual shrug, optics glinting. "What, a mech can't enjoy the sunrise and your charming company?"

She gave him a slow, suspicious glance as she filled their container for on-the-go rations, aka no one wanted to brew more. And they didn’t care if it was cold or hot.

"We don't even have a window."

"Details," he said smoothly, waving one servo as if that fact hadn't sparked everything that occurred the night prior. Something that hadn't been brought to attention quite yet amidst girl's night. "Maybe I just sensed your lack of caffeine levels and came to rescue you."

The girl was really obsessed with caffeine, and Jazz had overheard plenty of times when Ratchet scolded her for her lack of moderation ever since gaining access to the internet. As it turns out, the amount she drinks isn't exactly healthy. But she already had Ratchet on her case so he didn't say anything.

"Uh huh," she muttered. "And you just happened to be posted up like a dramatic magazine ad when I walked in?"

"That was fate." His grin widened. "Or maybe you just caught me lookin' good."

Rhea snorted. "Suspiciously rehearsed for a coincidence."

Jazz gave a wink. "Gotta keep you guessing, sweetpsark."

"Mm," she said again, eyeing him.

This light banter usually would've made her laugh as it normally did, but this morning, something in her stomach twisted.

The way he was watching her.

Like he was trying to act normal. He was damn good at it, and she probably wouldn't have noticed if not for knowing him so well–despite the short amount of time they've known one another.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she poured the coffee. "So. What's the damage?"

He blinked. "Damage?"

"You've got that tone. Like you're trying to distract me before telling me something I'm not gonna like."

Jazz chuckled lowly. "Now why would I do that?"

She gave him a look. "Because you do it all the time."

"Fair. But hey," he took a step forward. "How're you feeling? You looked a little worn out last night."

"Yeah, well. Girl's night tends to do that to you." She turned back toward the cabinet to grab a mug. Reached for the one she always used in the mornings–blue, speckled, and with a chipped handle from a clumsy Bluestreak. He apologized profusely but she had laughed it off.

Until she opened the cabinet and it lurched off the wall. The whole thing tilted forward like a drunk ghost in her hand and she had not been awake enough to register what the hell happened at first.

"Oh my god!"

She jumped back as it dangled by one last screw, threatening to take her out with it. Jazz moved on instinct, stepping forward, arms out–too small to do anything like catch it or her anyway–but thankfully she caught herself before it crashed completely.

"WHEELJACK!" she shouted as she stared at the cabinet door detached and in her hand.

The mad mech practically teleported in from the hallway. "What's up, Rhea?" he asked, chipper and smiling like he hadn't just left a deathtrap dangling above her counter.

She pointed at the cabinet, letting the scene speak for itself.

He gave her a sheepish look, fins blaring a white color in surprise. "Oh, right. Hah. Yeah, I meant to get to that!"

"Uh-huh," she said flatly.

"I'll fix it right away!" he chirped, already pulling tools from his hip compartment.

She squinted at him. "Right away?"

"Immediately."

He zoomed off toward the living room for more tools like he'd just been waiting for an excuse. Even if they both knew inwardly that the screws for this cabinet no longer were screws, likely melted down and used for something else.

She turned back to Jazz, suspicious but setting the cabinet leaning against the others on the floor. "That was weird..."

"How so?"

"You're all awfully quiet today, and whatever that was..." she muttered, trying to sound casual as she went back to her coffee task.

Jazz rubbed the back of his neck, failing to seem his usual self in her eyes. She was good at noticing it. "Maybe some of us are just wakin' up like you. We do get groggy, sort of."

"I thought you didn't need to recharge like us humans do." she cut in knowingly as she picked up the hot coffee pot. "What was it? You don't do it all at once and you can go a long time without it?"

Her fingers tightened around the handle of her coffee mug as she poured with the other into a few mini cups for the bots. Jazz's, Barricade's, Bumblebee's, the list went on for the perfectly marked and designation scribbled kid's medicine cups.

"You don't miss a thing."

She passed Jazz his cube, and his digits lingered as they brushed hers, but neither of them said anything.

"Alright," she said slowly, voice tinged with that backhanded politeness she was known for, "Fess up. I'm not gonna dance around this any longer."

Jazz opened his intake to reply, probably to try and play it off, but Barricade beat him to it as he entered the kitchen. "We know we're not the first Cybertronians in this reality."

Her hand slipped.

The mug fell from her grip, hit the tile with a sharp crack, and shattered into a dozen jagged pieces. Hot coffee splashed up her leg, scalding against her skin. She hissed through her teeth, the burn immediate and sharp as it soaked through the thin fabric of her pajama pants while porcelain shards and hot liquid splashed across the tile like blood.

"Rhea?!" Calix's small voice called from the hallway upon hearing it,

"Don't–" she rasped, her voice breaking mid-word. "Don't come in here. I broke a cup."

She stood frozen, staring at the mess on the floor. Her breath caught somewhere between her ribs, stuck under the pressure building in her chest.

A few mechs were already moving once hearing the crash, the first being Wheeljack as Jazz found the edge of the counter right beside her.

Wheeljack had returned at a brisk pace, tools in servo, skidding to a halt in the doorway. "Was that a crash–Rhea! Slag, are you alright?!"

Knockout appeared behind him, frowning deeply, optics scanning the scene. Elita and Chromia followed moments later, their optics flicking between Rhea and the floor to try and piece the scene together.

Even Grimlock loomed in the back, brow furrowed, trying to assess whether this was danger or just an organic breakdown.

Barricade, already in the kitchen, hadn't moved, nor did he look affected by the "dramatics." He leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, silent.

They were all watching her in a single moment that felt like an eternity within Rhea. Because inside, she was freaking the fuck out.

They know.

The thought slithered through her mind like smoke. It wasn't a sharp realization, but a slow, suffocating one. They know. They know. They know.

Her stomach twisted, and it was like someone had pulled a thread in her chest and all the seams she'd carefully stitched shut were unraveling at once.

Her mind tripped over itself, trying to figure everything out on the why and how without even asking.

Jazz was the first to move. He stepped forward slowly, gently reaching for her arm that was near enough to the counter. "Hey, Rhea–breathe, okay? It's alright."

Wheeljack hurriedly made his way over, avoiding the glass shards. "Is she burnt? Did something hit her? I'll com Ratchet."

"She's in shock," Knockout muttered the obvious.

"I'm fine," Rhea said far too quickly.

"It's okay," Elita offered softly, taking a tentative step closer, clearly also to avoid the shards.

"Wait, rewind, just–" she held up her hand, fingers trembling. Her eyes darted across the room, scanning the bots, as theguilt and panic crept into her lungs.

She swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I'm totally fine. See? No big deal. Just a mug. I broke a mug."

But her hand clenched into a fist at her side, nails digging into her palm. Because it wasn't just a mug. It was the lie unraveling. It was the timing. The exposure. And she hadn't been prepared for it to drop so suddenly.

Behind her, Barricade remained still, his silence louder than anything else after the bomb he just dropped, the bomb he was receiving heavy glares for saying because they were waiting to bring it up delicately after the kids had gone to school. They intended to sit her down to have this discussion, now here they were.

"Rhea!"

She turned and saw Calix running in, his face flushed and panicked. "I'm sorry!" he cried. "I didn't know it was bad! I told them–I told them about everything and I-I'm so sorry." Tears fell down his face, and he went to step forward.

"No, baby, it's–"

She stepped forward instead to stop him.

Crunch.

Glass pierced through her sock, slicing into the ball of her foot. "Dammit!" she gasped, nearly buckling.

"Rhea!" Multiple bots said at once as Calix froze, then burst into a sob.

"Are you okay?!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she gasped, blinking through tears. "I'm not mad at you. Oh baby, I'm not mad."

She limped over, ignoring the pain, and picked him up. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were just trying to be helpful."

His little face was blotchy and wet. "I thought they should know. I thought it was okay."

"It's okay," she whispered and brushed his hair out of his face, ignoring the bots trying to tell her to sit down off of her foot. "It's okay. I'm not mad."

Wheeljack hovered nearby. "Rhea, maybe you should–"

"I said I'm fine." She had other priorities at the moment.

She placed Calix gently on the dining table as she left the kitchen, brushing his cheeks that were soaked with tears.

It was then that Cora poked her head in, Bumblebee clutched in her arms looking just as concerned as the crowd that had begun to form. "What happened?"

"I dropped a cup, sweetheart," Rhea answered shortly, voice sugar-sweet again. "Can you get the broom for me? Don't go into the kitchen."

Cora nodded and disappeared while Rhea brushed the tears off Calix's cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie.

"You didn't stop on any glass, did you?"

He shook his head with a small hiccup.

Cora returned with the broom and Rhea smiled at her like nothing happened. "Thank you, honey."

She turned back to Calix and leaned in slightly, Rhea wiped the rest of Calix's tears with the side of her thumb, slow and gentle, brushing the damp trail from his cheek like it were made of something fragile. Her touch lingered for a moment, not just to clean, but to reassure that he wasn't in trouble, that she wasn't upset.

Then, without saying a word, she brought her hand to her chest and closed it into a soft fist, right over her heart. She held it there for a breath, a beat like she was gathering something important to capture his attention.

And then, slowly, she extended her arm toward him, unfurling her fingers as if revealing something precious resting in her palm.

The bots were quiet and curious as Calix's trembling lip stopped and his sniffle stalled. Then his little hands reached up and accepted it with the utmost care, as if he could feel its warmth even in pretend. He pressed it to his own chest, mimicking her motions with reverence far beyond his years.

His smile came shy at first, peeking out like sunlight through storm clouds

"Hey," she whispered, lips tugging into a secret smile, "how about this? Later tonight, after homework and bath time, you get to show the bots any Transformers show or movie you want." It had been off the table in favor of not crashing Prowl again, but the eagerness hadn't dimmed in the bots nor the kids since then.

His eyes widened a little, the smallest hint of a grin peeking through the aftermath of his tears. "Even the really loud ones?"

"Especially the really loud ones," she said with a wink. "You're the boss tonight."

He pressed a sleeve to his nose again and giggled, soft and quiet, the way he always laughed when something made him truly happy. Rhea's chest tightened in that achy, protective way.

She loved this kid. She loved all of them. And the bots could see that.

He had no idea what he'd accidentally unearthed, but even now, she wasn't angry at him. Not even a little.

Madoc, however...

Madoc is not getting the same immunity clause, she thought dryly.

Calix tugged gently on her sleeve. "Do you think Bumblebee'll let me show him the one where he has wings?"

"He definitely will," she said, brushing his hair from his face once more.

Calix smiled wider, nodding.

Rowan appeared, picking up his backpack and grabbing Calix's hand. "You can sit down, Rhea. I'll help get everyone–"

"You don't have to do that, Ro."

A back and forth ensued, but Rhea refused to sit down even when Jazz muttered for somebody to go get Ratchet downstairs. She refused to let Rowan have to be the grown-up, even if she was a bit over the top about the smallest things.

So now she was at the door waving them off.

"I'll see you guys after school," she said, still trying to sound sunny. "I love you!"

"Love you too!" the chorus echoed.

The door clicked shut behind the kids, and the second it did, Ratchet's voice was barking through the tension like a whip crack the moment he was downstairs.

"Sit."

Rhea flinched, her body already protesting as she lowered herself into the nearest chair. Her foot throbbed, the sock now fully soaked through with blood. But she at least stopped arguing.

"Somebody get me the first aid kit." Ratchet ordered, already crouching beside her.

"On it!" Bluestreak called from across the room, skidding a little on the floor as he pivoted toward the stairs. "Where is it–Oh no, wait, it's not in the usual drawer anymore. I got it!"

His voice faded up the stairs in a high-speed blur.

They all kind of... hovered nearby, silent and visibly tense while Jazz knelt on Rhea's other side, optics flicking from her injured foot to her face.

"You're lucky it didn't go deeper," Ratchet muttered as he peeled the sock back. "Could've severed a nerve."

"Thanks, Dad," she said sarcastically, lips tugging faintly upward, even though it didn't reach her eyes.

"Hmph."

Ratchet analyzed and scanned the wound with his sensors with surprisingly gentle servo, though his frown could've curdled concrete.

"These were my favorite socks," Rhea muttered softly with a quiet snort, mostly to fill the silence. Perhaps add a touch of humor.

Jazz let out a soft vent, like he wanted to say something but didn't know what.

Then Bluestreak clattered down the stairs again, first aid kit comically oversized in his arms and he struggled to hold it at all. "Here! Sorry! Everything's still in here, including like three kinds of med patches and oh! The mini tweezers! The ones we used when Madoc got the splinter in his–"

"Put it down," Ratchet huffed and waved him off.

Rhea held still as Ratchet dug through the crate. He yanked out a tiny sterile kit with one servo and the correct tweezers with the other, which were huge for him. "Hold still."

She didn't fight him, merely staring straight ahead as he cleaned and dressed her wound.

His grumbling never stopped.

"You shouldn't have stepped without looking."

"I know."

"And you shouldn't ignore your own safety just because Calix was upset. What do you think I deal with? But you don't see me stepping on any glass–"

"That's because your feet are made of metal," she murmured dryly. "Or pedes, or whatever."

"That's beside the point."

But even in his scolding, his servos were steady and precise. She could feel the concern tucked beneath every huff, every mutter. It was the closest thing to being parented she'd felt in a long time, and she didn't have the energy to push it away.

He wrapped the bandage carefully, almost protectively, before securing the end with medical tape. A final tug then a silent nod.

Rhea flexed her foot slightly. "Thanks, Ratch."

"Don't touch it and keep off of it. And if I catch you acting stupid like Jazz or the twins when I fix them up–"

"Hey!"

"You'll what, ground me?" she teased softly, the two of them ignoring the protests.

"I have my ways, youngling."

She snorted.

Ratchet grumbled, but the edge was gone now.

He stood back, making room for another. It was Elita who finally stepped forward, her tone low and careful. "Rhea."

Rhea didn't answer, but they all felt her energy shift knowingly.

Optimus's voice followed, deep and calm as always. "You don't have to explain everything now. But we would like to know... the truth. From you."

There was no malice or any inclination of anger at her, but she couldn't help but swallow hard.

All of the bots, both Autobot and Decepticon, were there and she could feel their gazes. She didn't quite understand EM fields but she also knew that it was like her emotions connected to a bluetooth speaker. A speaker she couldn't hear but they could.

She felt exposed.

And now they wanted to hear it from her. She had preferred it be from her in the first place, but in keeping her silence to protect everybody around her from her, she lost that chance.

She looked at her wrapped foot. At her half-cooled coffee puddled on the tile back in the kitchen. At the untouched broom and shattered glass. At her ruined sock, crumpled on the floor like the moment itself.

"Alright," she said softly, finally lifting her eyes. "You guys deserve the truth..."

Her throat burned. "But you better all sit down."

Rhea lowered herself to sit on the floor to be at more eye-level with them all–more on their level yet all she could stare at was the floor. The burn on her leg, the throbbing under the gauze, all of it faded beneath the pounding of her heart.

They were all there, Autobot and Decepticon alike.

Some stood, others sat like she had directed, some leaned, some crossed their arms, but all of them were silent.

She took a breath and looked up. "I never meant to lie." Her voice cracked, causing her to swallow hard and she forced her spine straight.

"Technically you didn't."

"She kinda did, though."

"Not directly."

"Lying by omission still counts. It's logical."

"Would you all shut the frag up and let the femme finish?"

She sighed, casting a thankful glance at Sunstreaker, of all mechs.

"As I was saying, I need to start with that. I never set out to trick you or manipulate you or anything. I just... how do you begin to explain that to you guys, you know?" How do I explain that half of you took over planet Earth while the other half of you are dead? How do I explain that it was just easier to let everything just be happy on 'vacation' and forget about both of their realities for a moment?

Her eyes met Jazz's visor first, which was unreadable... Only to then drift across the room.

Elita's optics were steady with concern.

Wheeljack's wide-eyed quiet.

Optimus, unmoving and unreadable but listening with every inch of his being.

Barricade, stone-faced.

Skywarp and Thundercracker behind him, inscrutable. Knockout, Chromia, Bumblebee.

Soundwave.

Even the younger bots, sitting near the edges. All of them waited for her to go on, especially after Sunstreaker said anything at all, standing beside his twin with his arms crossed.

"I was twelve when our Decepticons landed on Earth."

She exhaled slowly and began to explain everything as she remembered it, and nobody dared interrupt.

That by the time tanks, jets and missiles took the first Cons down, the city of Chicago was in shambles. Tens of thousands of lives were lost, but everybody thought that was it.

Six months later, they realized they were nothing but scouts, and the Decepticon warship entered their atmosphere.

They were nearly impossible to take down, let alone put a dent in the giant metal forces, that they soon realized were aiming to call Earth their home, without humans on it. She assumed because Cyberton is no longer liveable.

The world came together, all facing a common enemy, to pool their resources into a more effective way to fight back against these aliens. All rivalries, trade wars, and politics were cast aside for the sake of their world.

"We built something called the Talos Program. Metal to fight metal."

Their optics flicked in curiosity.

"Two pilots to control each one. Big, strong, faster than anything we'd ever made. It took years, failures, people dying inside those machines, but eventually... we fought back. And we won. Not all the time, not without cost, but we were surviving."

She laughed once, but it was bitter with no real humor behind it. "And then we made it propaganda. You became toys. Cartoons. Shows. Symbols. The Decepticons were still real, but kids played with your faces and made jokes and held onto it because it made the fear easier."

Sideswipe shifted slightly. Even he was quiet as they all tried to picture this, grasp it, even.

For some, it was hard to picture. The humans had come up with a way to protect themselves in a way they had never seen before. It was...intriguing and concerning all the same–mostly for the Autobots.

"I've never seen an Autobot in my world. Not until you showed up. There's TV-shows and stuff made off of you guys, but that's merely from memories pulled from severed helms in battle to try to get info. Or so I've heard... But you guys were offline long before any of us were born, let alone reached Earth. That's all I really know about what happened."

That made a few of them twitch, and she could feel the tension amongst the Autobots who were all either blank in the faceplate as if they were unaffected, while others looked angrier or even a bit...green. Not literally, but that was the only way she could describe it.

She saw the flinch in Bumblebee's shoulders. The way Elita pressed her dermas tight. The shared glance between Optimus and Prowl–whose digits twitched in finding the logic in all of this.

Still, no one interrupted her.

Rhea drew in another breath, almost shaky now, so nervous in her core she couldn't fathom the intense look Jazz had. It didn't move, didn't falter, but never left her.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I really am. I just... I didn't tell you because... I didn't want you to worry. I didn't want to drag you into our war. Especially not after seeing how excited the kids were. How you reacted to being here. It was just–."

"Easier." Starscream interrupted, drawing her eyes immediately. Like he understood?

But she didn't get a chance to ask him to elaborate in favor of tilting her eyes away, voice shaky as she said, "I just wanted to protect that version of you while you're here."

The room was still.

But then Elita's voice came softly. "You shouldn't have had to carry that alone. We don't mind sharing burden, even if it's our alternate selve's issues."

"I did it because I–" she said before cutting herself off quickly, taking a breath before continuing, "You guys mean a lot to the kids. And I'm sure you guys have so much going on in your world you've got to get back to... Everybody kinda need that break and I didn't want to–"

Optimus stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "You have protected us," he put it into words she couldn't quite manage quietly. "You've sheltered us, welcomed us in your home, and given us more than you had to. Though this was not anticipated, it is not changing things. I feel it is necessary you know that no one here is angry with you."

"I know," her voice was quiet, hiding the way it broke. "That's the worst part."

They blinked.

"I wish someone was mad," she admitted. "Because then it would be easier. It wouldn't feel so much like I failed everyone anyway."

A longer silence now. Not heavy, but thoughtful.

Jazz moved to say something, but she stood before he could.

Ratchet's voice cut sharp the moment she moved. "Sit down, youngling. You need to be careful with your pede–"

"I'm fine," she dismissed, though it did little to convince anyone.

She stepped past them all slowly, careful on her wrapped foot, eyes trained on nothing and no one. "I just... I'm gonna shower."

And no one stopped her, cause even if they tried, they weren't going to get very far.

She disappeared up the stairs, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, while the silence stretched downstairs.

The Decepticons all retreated toward the laundry room for obvious reasons, leaving just the Autobots.

Ratchet vented and turned back toward the medical kit to pack everything back in neatly. "Stubborn."

"Guilt-driven," Elita corrected softly, though neither was wrong.

Optimus nodded, arms folded. "Rhea believes it her sole responsibility to protect those around her. Though this has come as a surprise, there is a time where I am sure all of us may have acted similarly. We will not judge her for this decision or hold it against her."

No one disagreed, and if they disagreed with certain aspects of what Prime said, they kept it to themselves.

Well, a comment or two from Ratchet was unavoidable, but most of the conversation needed to be discussed later in a meeting once everybody went to sleep and they could retreat to their base. Now was not the time.

So with that in place, no longer needed in the murmured conversations had in Cybertronian, Jazz couldn't help but linger by the base of the stairs.

He stared at the place she'd vanished, visor dim with something unreadable.

Jazz was observant at best, though some would rather call it nosey, but regardless, it made him damn good at reading bots. He wasn't necessarily a 'lie-detector' but little to nothing ever slipped past him. It was why he ranked how he did in the Autobot resistance.

He understood very clearly why she kept the truth. Why she carried everything on her back like it belonged to her alone.

She wasn't trying to be dishonest.

She was trying to save everyone–even them–from the kind of pain she'd grown up with. From the kids, to her friends, the Autobots, and to even the Decepticons in her home despite having every reason to despise them for what reality she currently lived.

And it broke something quietly inside him to watch her try, to never ask for help, never ask someone to share her load, and to never truly allow someone to look after her. It was probably something defensive, and he suspected her male-creator that had come over that one time probably had a lot to do with it.

There was much story there that couldn't be pinned to one thing, but he was figuring it out, so that maybe he could–despite cursing to himself with every passing day here that he was stuck in this useless toy frame.

---

After the weight of the afternoon, everyone seemed to sense the unspoken agreement: keep things soft and easy for Rhea's sake.

Jazz moved through the living room, steps light, as familiar sounds began to re-emerge. The TV was on, volume low, but the screen still hovered on the home menu as Bumblebee and Bluestreak stood in front of it like two scholars trying to decipher an ancient relic.

"I'm telling you, this one switches the input–no, wait, that's volume."

"It wasn't me that muted it!"

Grimlock strolled by behind them, apparently deciding the debate had gone on long enough, and snatched the massive remote out of Bluesreak's servos with the ease of someone plucking a pebble off the ground.

Both mechs flailed.

"NO, DON'T BREAK IT!"

Sideswipe cackled from the kitchen island, elbow on the counter, sipping his coffee like he was watching a comedy play unfold in real time.

Jazz smiled faintly and shook his helm as he passed by.

At the top of the bookshelf, he could just make out the edge of Skywarp's wing peeking over the side, slack and drooping in recharge. The Seekers had curled up high above the commotion, piled like overgrown cats wedged between houseplants and picture frames. Thundercracker's knee joint twitched every now and then as if dreaming.

Jazz stepped past the bookshelf they usually resided, heading toward the stairs.

The lighting shifted as he climbed up the steps. The farther he got from the living room, the dimmer it became. Not dark, just hushed.

Upstairs carried a different kind of silence that was very much intentional. It was like the house itself was giving her space to process, to decompress, to breathe. They were all processing the new factors of their situation in their own way, others handling it better than others.

For example, as he passed the kids' rooms, a cracked door revealed Sunstreaker, alone and quiet in Cora and Calix's shared space. Cora's colored pencils lay in a neat row beside him, and he was drawing–soft, slow strokes, nothing furious or bold.

Jazz didn't stare, didn't intrude–Sunstreaker hated that, especially when he fell into his hidden artistry. Just kept moving, knowing Cora allowed him to use her things, even if they were comically big for him.

But there was one that was processing much different things from them.

Rhea hadn't come back down since her shower, Jazz noticed.

They all agreed to give her some space for the day, they all kind of needed some time to fall back into their usual routine and day, and maybe no one else noticed with the conversation from earlier still hung in the air like static trying to be shaken off, but he certainly had.

Strangely enough, Jazz wasn't bothered by the knowledge that they now had. He had been putting the pieces together for a bit, with the paper on the counter now less of a mystery and some of the things mentioned clearing up. The fact he was offline in this reality strangely didn't bother him like it clearly bothered some of the others, because it was not himself.

What bothered him was her.

With that letter about her passing a screening for this Talos Program, which he now knew was their way of fighting back against Cons, seemed to be the last thing she wanted to do despite excelling. And he didn't question her answer. He knew Rhea well enough now to know she prioritized these kids far too much to throw herself into battle, not when she was needed elsewhere.

If he had to describe it... It wasn't that she was incapable of a fight. He could see it in her. It was more like, she'd rather help those around her in a far more protective, touching manner.

It was... refreshing.

He was so used to the war, and he had seen much battle and death along the way. Everybody was eager to pick up a weapon, and he had to admit, as much as his charisma and slyness helped, he fell on that side of the spectrum of things.

Rhea was part of the very few he classified in their own little category. Where so many hurt others in the war, though unavoidable and often necessary in a war, there were those few that just wanted to protect who they could and help by fixing. It wasn't always physical, but without the sparing few, they'd all have been lost to scraps a very long time ago. Not everybody respected it if they couldn't understand, and though they were capable of wielding a weapon, sometimes it was better not to.

As much as neither wanted to admit it, she saw Rhea in Ratchet–and vice versa.

He wondered if she ever considered anything medical-wise as he continued down the hallway, moving silently like always.

When he reached her door, barely cracked open like all those in the home, he paused.

He heard it before he saw her.

A quiet sound. It was soft and barely there but he had heard it so clearly through the crack in the door.

Humming.

He'd learned by now she did that to calm herself. Had seen it before in small, flickering moments when she thought no one was watching, and it always had the same kind of hush to it. It was like she was building a quiet place around herself note by note, thinking no one was listening. Or perhaps not used to being heard.

But when he gently pushed the door open and stepped in, the humming stopped at the small creak the door made.

Rhea stood near her dresser, dressed in fresh clothes and a towel still slung around her shoulders from the shower. Her hair was damp, blonde hair turned brown by the water as it clung to her neck. The light was dim, the lamp warm beside her, illuminating the girl as she turned toward him without surprise, just quiet resignation.

He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at her with that soft tilt of his visor, like he was seeing straight through the walls she thought was still up.

"Sorry," he said, keeping his voice low. "Didn't mean to sneak in on your concert."

That earned a soft huff, but she looked down, beginning to busy her hands with something else to avoid saying anything at all.

He watched her for another moment before gently steering the conversation toward something else. "I meant to ask... earlier today. That little signal you did for Calix. What was that?" It was a genuine question, one he stashed for later when he witnessed the interaction, but it felt like the right conversation turner.

Her hands froze for a second only to slowly tuck a shirt into a drawer and turn back to him.

"It's kind of our own thing," she explained. "Made-up sign, I guess. Started as a way to say 'I see you and I'm here.' For when words are too loud, y'know?"

She demonstrated again with a closed fist over her heart, then she opened her hand, palm up and toward him.

"It's just something I taught them," she laughed, though it was soft and more of a way to diffuse the lingering tension he worked to dissipate. "The full way to say it in sign was a bit long."

Jazz's visor dimmed a little, softening. "That's beautiful." One search on the internet quickly explained the concept of sign language, and from what he had seen in that short moment, humans didn't learn this quickly. They usually didn't learn it without reason, and he wondered what her reason was. "Where'd you learn sign language?"

Rhea shrugged far too nonchalantly. "Just something I picked up one day."

A lie. He tilted his helm slightly at her but didn't say anything.

"You know," he added, lighter now, "Bumblebee would love to learn that from you. Bet he'd be thrilled for when we got back to our world."

Rhea let out a small laugh, but it was the kind that didn't quite touch her eyes. It was shy and careful, and Jazz couldn't help but feel a little frustrated when she didn't look at him. The fact alone made his spark clench a little. But he was stubborn too, and he wasn't going to let up on Rhea.

Perhaps he needed a different approach.

Instead, he smiled a little and stepped closer to her, leaning against the nearest surface. "I like it," he declared, tone easy. "That sign. That meaning. You protecting what's important to you."

She didn't answer, so he kept going, inwardly preparing himself for this new approach.

"You know, back home... I don't always remember why I fight. Or what I'm fighting for. Sometimes it gets so dark, so heavy... the only thing you can see is the loss. The ones you couldn't save. The ones that didn't make it. And that guilt, it stacks."

He shifted his weight as his change of tone and his dropped accent got her to look directly at him, having her full attention, and he'd be damned if he let her walls slam shut on him again.

Jazz put himself between her crammed walls daring to shut on him, even if it hurt, but refused to move. Even if it meant being a little vulnerable, because trusting she wouldn't, went a long way.

Neither handed out trust very easily, but here they were.

"I used to blame myself every time someone got hurt. Like if I'd just been faster, smarter, maybe–"

He cut himself off.

Handing out one's trust, or even a little, was never easy. But to him, it was worth it.

The air hung still again. But Rhea was watching now. Her brow furrowed, not with judgment, just understanding.

And his optics never left her.

"That's always something that lingers, probably with all of us, I guess. But when I cam here and I saw you with the younglings. Saw the way they smile with you. The way they're safe." His voice dropped just slightly. "And it reminded me what it's supposed to feel like. What it could feel like."

Neither could look away.

"I wanna see a future on Cybertron where younglings are like that," he murmured. "Loud, happy, making towers outta junk and fighting over silly things."

She snorted softly at that but her jaw was tight.

"And maybe you think it's not enough," he said so certainly, without any hesitation. "But they are. And you're the reason."

There was a beat of silence between them.

Then his tone shifted, a little gentler, softer, and just enough teasing at the edge, knowing quite well that she'd change the subject soon if he passed this opportunity. Getting Rhea to be vulnerable about herself was arguably one of the hardest things he's had to dance around. "So... who protects you?"

"I'm fine."

"Nah," Jazz smirked slightly to keep the humor in the conversation she clung to, quite similarly to himself, but not without affirming, "You don't have to be."

It was a matter of balancing seriousness and humor when it came to her, and he was getting good at it with her. She couldn't quite figure out why he tried so hard, but he did.

"You're worth fighting for," he repeated as if it needed clarification, knowing she needed to hear it out loud even if she wasn't ready to believe it. "Even if you never ask anyone to fight for you."

"Jazz..." she started, maybe to change the subject, maybe to deflect again.

Unfortunately for Rhea, he was just as stubborn as herself and he pushed his limits.

"Everyone needs someone in their corner, Rhea. Even you."

She didn't respond, just dropped her eyes with the faintest hint of color in her cheeks.

And when she opened her mouth, maybe to argue again, shoot back that stubbornness like a mirror, nothing came out like it usually did.

His visor lifted slightly, voice dipping just a note lower to remind her once more. "You're worth fighting for, you know." And it was becoming his personal mission to repeat this until she believed it.

Her eyes snapped to his, wide with sudden emotion, but he smiled like it was nothing. Even if the words meant everything.

Her lips twitched. "You're so dramatic." There was that slight veer of the subject, taking the attention off of her.

"Can't help it," he smirked, keeping his recognition of this to himself since he had gotten out what he needed to say. "It's part of the charm."

Her shoulders relaxed while something uncoiled in her chest as his accent fell back into place. The air felt lighter again in the room.

"You're ridiculous," she shook her head softly.

He gave a two-digit salute. "And yet, you keep lettin' me in."

She laughed quietly, for real this time. Nothing to shatter the tension And he paused just long enough to catch it, file it away like a precious sound.

He leaned against the edge of her bed frame, arms folded and his tone remaining soft. "Alrigh' if I tell ya somethin', ya gotta keep it yourself."

She blinked at him, curiosity replacing some of her tension. But she took the touch of humor on his seriousness easily. "A secret from the saboteur himself. I feel honored."

"You should. Not many I share my secrets with."

This got her to lightly laugh once more.

"This a trade?"

"I'm never opposed to learnin' something new about you," She rolled her eyes as he smirked her way, only to admit, "But nah, this one's for free."

"I'm all ears."

"Okay, so I used to sneak out as a youngling and climb up to the old transit towers," he said, a small nostalgic smile tugging at his dermas. "They were rusted out 'cause no one used them anymore, but if ya climbed high enough, you could see the stars."

He glanced up, as if seeing them again, and their eyes/optics lingered on the ceiling.

"I'd sit there with this busted old speaker I rewired. It barely worked, but it could pick up these stray radio signals."

She let out a quiet huff of amusement as he briefly hinted at the fact he liked anything that came on the radio. He seemed like the type to her.

"So even with the war, or when I started working under cover, even when I had to be someone else to get the job done... I held onto the version of me that climbed those towers and made music out of broken wires."

Rhea's expression softened, the edges of her mouth pulling faintly upward. She didn't speak, but her posture had eased, nor had her eyes hadn't left his.

Her smile faded into something deeper.

"You miss it," she voiced her observations as if it was clear as the sky they couldn't currently see.

He nodded once. "Not all of it. Just the parts that made it feel like it could've been saved." He paused. Then looked directly at her again with nothing but certainty. "That's why I said what I did."

She tried to speak, tried to deflect again, but he cut in, voice firmer now, "Don't say you don't need protecting."

"Jazz..."

"Nope." He leaned forward a little, not pushing, but not backing down either. "Everybody needs someone watching their back. You may have fooled the rest of them with that 'I'm fine' routine, but not me. Take it from a mech who gets it"

Her shoulders dropped slightly as if some of the weight had finally shifted, and she stared at him for a moment.

Then she laughed, just a little, breathy and embarrassed. "You're really not gonna let me have the last word here, are you?"

"Not when I'm right," he grinned, refusing to lose this argument and enjoying every second of it.

"That's debatable."

"You're smiling."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Shut up."

They both laughed at that.

But leave it to this chaotic household to interrupt such a moment–CRASH!

A metallic clatter followed by the distinct sound of someone yelling, "SUNSTREAKER! SIDESWIPE! WHAT ARE YOU–"

Rhea's head snapped toward the door. "What now?"

Jazz winced at the sound downstairs before stating the obvious, "That would be the terror twins"

Another bang, followed by Bumblebee's voice calling upstairs: "Hey, Rhea! We've got a problem!"

Jazz and Rhea shared a long look before she scooped him up to her shoulder to get there faster and, together, they headed for the stairs, already bracing for whatever mess was waiting for them.

He clung to her shoulder as Rhea hobbled full speed into the living room–if "full speed" counted when your foot was bandaged and your whole nervous system was in crisis mode.

She stopped short, causing Jazz to brace a servo gently against her head for balance, optics wide as he followed her line of sight.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker–no longer twelve-inch figurines–lay sprawled across the living room floor.

They were tall now. Seven feet tall, easy.

Their optics, however, were dim and grey.

All around them, the rest of the house was frozen in place, visibly thrown at the situation.

Rhea stared before finally snapping out of her shock, gaping. "What the frag happened?!" Wait, did she say frag?

She didn't have time to think twice.

"You really need an answer to that?" Ratchet grunted from where he was standing beside Sunstreaker, scanning quickly.

"You said this wouldn't happen anytime soon!"

"I said the growth shouldn't trigger yet. But their readings spiked, and here we are,” he snapped, then pointed toward Sideswipe. "Get over here. I need you to check something."

"Me?!"

"Your injury to your foot did not hurt your processor! I am not big enough to access them from both ends."

Jazz hopped down from her shoulder, landing lightly on the armrest of a nearby chair. "He's got a point."

"Right, right... What do I do?" she asked breathlessly, already stumbling forward to help.

"They're in stasis lock. I need you to reach under the plating at the center of the chassis here," he pointed to a specific panel just above Sunstreaker's abdomen. "You'll feel a groove about this wide–" he held up two digits. "Slide your hand in, up and under, toward the core panel beneath for both of them."

"Is that safe?"

"It'll be fine."

She knelt between the twins, turning toward Sunstreaker first, her heart hammering in her chest.

The two were so much bigger now–far taller than her. She was already short for a human, clearing five feet, so in the back of her mind she hoped nobody would try to shove her in the washer as payback for that first day.

She slid her hand carefully along the warm plating–God, this was so weird–and finally found the spot Ratchet described. Her fingers touched metal that was faintly vibrating.

Her other hand did the same over Sideswipe, vaguely aware of holding every optic in the room. What was with her and being the center of attention today?

"Now check the spark pulse," Ratchet ordered from the other side, hovering right beside her.

She pressed the flat of her palm against their plating. A warm thrum met each of her hands. A strange, stuttered beat that vibrated through the frame, feeling awfully weird against the skin of her hands.

"Are they the same?"

She concentrated, shutting everything else out.

The beats weren't smooth, or rather, not the same rhythm as a human heartbeat. Sparks were energy, but functioned similarly despite being far more complex. It was like the shake of a bass, the heat warming their spark casing but still having a soft rhythm that felt unnatural to her.

What mattered was that they were perfectly in sync it seemed. "They match," she breathed. "Weird tempo, but... it's the same."

Ratchet finally vented, showcasing his relief by stepping back once. "Good."

"Why do they need to be in sync?"

"They're not like human twins, they're Cybertonian split-sparked twins," Ironhide clarified from where he watched as Ratchet reviewed his scans quickly. "They have one spark, split at formation. If their pulses ever don't match, it's not good."

She stared down at them, hand still resting on their plating. Which was weird in itself, and it hadn't escaped her that they grew.

Her voice was faint, like a breath of disbelief as she uttered, "Holy hell."

With great care, she withdrew her hands, and thank god she did because the second she cleared the panel, Sideswipe's optics lit.

Not all at once, but a flicker blooming outward as the blueish-purple returned.

Sideswipe jerked upright as his brother started to come to, his optics flaring as he twisted on instinct, arms swinging wide.

The whole room sprung into action as Rhea yelped and ducked, barely avoiding a heavy elbow to the face. Which would've hurt considering he was made of metal.

Sunstreaker shot up next, more controlled but just as rattled, optics scanning wildly.

"It's okay!" Rhea shouted, hands raised. "You're safe! You're okay!"

Jazz threw up a calming hand, as close to the edge of the armchair as he could get. "Stand down!" His optics flickered to a very lucky Rhea, cursing the fact he wasn't the one big enough to throw an arm out in front of her.

Thankfully it didn't end with her getting whacked.

Sideswipe's chassis heaved as he looked down at his servos, then to the room, like trying to come to his senses.

Sunstreaker's optics cycled slowly. "What the–"

"Relax," Ratchet ordered quickly, being the only voice as the rest of the room relaxed with the twins now that they were calm. "You've just reverted to your proper frames, or at least a bigger version and not all at once. It knocked you into stasis." And it seems they woke up swinging when stasis came suddenly, but she was grateful their growth wasn't suddenly them growing to thirteen feet (as the minimum height) or higher in one go. That'd be a lot harder on everyone, and to keep them a secret.

The twins were quiet, still processing and their optics moved slowly between each other, then to the space they now occupied.

Rhea sat back on her heels, taking a breath. "You guys scared the hell out of us. Congratulations, though. You're walking hazards now."

Sunstreaker rubbed the side of his helm, still quiet.

"Medbay. Now," Ratchet ordered. "Both of you."

"Seriously?" Sideswipe muttered, voice distant.

"Seriously. You just knocked yourselves out and nearly destabilized your spark rhythm. We're checking everything."

They groaned, barely, but moved.

Sideswipe stood first, unsteady on his newly grown legs, "Woah your house is actually really sma–" and immediately slammed his helm into the top of the hallway doorframe.

"Slag!"

"Please don't break my house." Rhea called automatically as he ducked this time to get up, struggling to figure out his pedes on the smaller steps.

"Got it, babe." He shot her a brief wink over his shoulder only to slip on a step and catch himself on the wall. This was hard when he was a bit bigger than natural now.

He grumbled something unintelligible and focused while Sunstreaker followed without a word and notably less struggle.

As soon as they disappeared down the hall, Rhea dropped onto the couch like a ragdoll, both hands over her face.

"I need a break," she groaned.

"Fair," said Elita, watching the human femme with a look of understanding.

"You've earned several," added Chromia with a chuckle as she climbed up the couch to sit with her.

Knockout gave a slow, impressed nod. "I have never seen a human keep that much composure while being almost elbowed into another dimension."

Rhea dropped her hands, face drawn. "I didn't keep anything. I'm so close to laying on the floor and never moving again."

Bluestreak, who she hadn't realized stood next to Jazz beside her, handed her a throw pillow much bigger than himself, like an offering.

She took it gently, confused at why he was handing this to her.

"I heard the humans on base reference screaming into a pillow to release frustration. It could help! Or! Or! You could take a nap to release tension, I hear that helps wonders. Nurse Darby says this all the time." She didn't know who this Nurse Darby was but she smiled gently at the mech eager to help, catching Jazz with the same look on his face.

"Thanks, Blue."

He straightened, proud to have helped.

---

Later, upstairs, the house was quieter. But not like how it had been when it was just Rhea home.

The chaos of the movie downstairs faded into muffled explosions and the occasional "Wait, is that me?" and "I'm not in this?" echoing up through the floorboards.

But here, in the small upstairs bathroom, it felt like a pocket of calm peace. Blue had been right, a little nap had helped.

And Rhea had been a little surprised when Rowan came to her for help with his hair, but she was the quickest to ask him to follow her upstairs so they could do so. She'd help him with anything he needed, always.

Jazz, nosy as ever, followed without a word with Prowl beside him–who didn't want to glitch while watching the film.

She pulled a chair into the center of the tiled floor of the bathroom as Rowan sat down, hands fidgeting in his lap. Jazz leaned against the mirror while standing on the counter, arms crossed and visor dimmed. Prowl posted up just under the medicine cabinet, silent but ever-curious. He had preferred to spend time alone in their base, but Jazz dragged him along with not much room for argument.

Rhea washed her hands and turned to Rowan, catching his gaze in the mirror.

"You sure about this?"

"Yeah," he said, voice a little hoarse. "I think I just need something new."

She nodded, not asking anything else other than what he might want done specifically, and then got to work.

It wasn't anything fancy, just a careful trim, a reshaping here and there after wetting his hair. But her touch was calm and gentle on his head as she worked.

Until she broke the silence as gently as her hands. "You're quiet tonight." Which was true. He hadn't had much to say when he came back a bit later than the kids from school. And didn't have much input during dinner.

Rowan shifted slightly in his chair. "I've just been... thinking about something. Something I want to do."

She didn't press, merely snipping away and adjusting the angle of his head gently.

"I want to do it," he continued, vague about it purposefully but confiding in her anyway, "but I don't know if I can. Like, what if I screw it up?"

Rhea stilled for a moment, listening to him. Whatever it was, she knew it was affecting him, but he wasn't ready to share. And as much as she wanted to know, to help, she knew better than to push. She understood but recognized his need to confide in her without telling her the whole story yet.

So, she smiled softly at him in the mirror. "You want to hear what my mom told me once?"

Jazz's optics flicked toward her at that, and the statement seemed to also catch Prowl's attention. He hadn't heard her mention her femme-creator before.

"Yeah," Rowan answered, voice soft.

Rhea worked another section of his hair as she spoke. "She told me: Just give yourself twenty seconds of insane courage. Of just embarrassing bravery. I promise you, something great will come of it."

Rowan's brows lifted, surprised. "Only twenty seconds?" The idea seemed rather strange.

She smiled with her nod, her voice laced with nothing but certainty. "That's all you need, because often the things that need to be said you overcomplicate if you take more than twenty-seconds."

From the counter, Jazz stared a little too long at her reflection in the mirror as he listened to this concept. He didn't say a word, but inside, something shifted.

He didn't know anything about her femme-creator, or mother, but it seemed to be a much fonder relationship... And he definitely hadn't missed how she said nothing about her sire, er–father. But that was a bit easier to figure out why from what he witnessed.

As far as he was concerned, if her sire ever showed up, and he had gone through the halfway growth change? He'd punch that glitch in the face. Twice.

"She sounds cool," Rowan said.

"She was," Rhea replied quietly, smiling a bit at whatever memory hit her head.

They didn't say more. Just let the moment sit there.

Rhea brushed the final few strands from his forehead and stepped back, squinting like a painter inspecting a nearly finished piece.

"Alright." She set the scissors on the counter. "Moment of truth."

Rowan turned toward the mirror slowly, running a hand through his now much shorter hair. It wasn't styled or dramatic, just clean and simple–exactly what he wanted.

He stared for a second, quiet. Then: "...I actually like it."

"You better," she joked, playfully poking his arm. "It's irreversible for the next couple of months."

He gave a small huff of a laugh. "I like it."

She smiled at him in the mirror. "Good."

Jazz watched quietly from the counter, visor dim, arms still crossed but his posture softer now. Prowl, ever-curious, had tilted his helm just slightly, clearly still observing the entire event like it was some fascinating Earth ritual, finding the logic in the little things that didn't quite make sense to them yet. Not without all of the pieces.

Jazz noted that Rhea and Rowan were a little different in their connection than with the other younglings. Not that she loved any of them less than the other, he didn't think that. She loved all these younglings with every fiber of her being, he could tell. It was something that hadn't been quite spoken yet, like they shared something the others hadn't.

It could've been the closeness in their age, though drastic, but it was like staring at a pair of siblings rather than her usual "mom-role" for the little ones.

Rhea looked at Rowan again and something flickered across his face–like he was holding something back. That same tightness in his shoulders, a worry he couldn't quite name.

Jazz saw it clear as day, and he knew Rhea had, but whatever was bothering the youngling, he clearly wasn't ready to talk about it.

She had set the ball in his court, waiting patiently.

So she nudged his elbow gently. "Wanna know what this calls for?"

Rowan looked at her, cautious. "What?"

She turned toward the mirror, struck a pose beside him, and said with absolute confidence, "Model face."

"What?" He looked at her incredulously, biting back his confused laugh.

"You heard me," she laughed despite being dead serious. "You just got a new haircut. Time to test the angles."

He snorted. "You're not serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious. C'mon on." Rowan blinked, then, shook his head with a laugh.

"C'mon," she urged, lifting her arm. "Do the 'I could be in a shampoo commercial' head tilt."

He tried it, badly, and then broke. The laugh slipped out before he could stop it and Rhea grinned wider, mission accomplished as they laughed together at their dumb "commercial poses."

Jazz watched, visor flickering faintly with unreadable light as he smiled at them.

Prowl, inspecting with something between suspicion and genuine appreciation, nodded once. "Functional and aesthetically balanced."

"Which is the Prowler way of saying you look great," Rhea translated with a wink, noting the way Jazz smirked at his stolen nickname for the police cruiser mech.

Rowan lifted his hands to his chest and formed the family sign in a silent manner, still chuckling as his fist came over his heart, followed by an open hand toward her in the mirror.

Rhea mirrored him instantly, their eyes meeting in the reflection with a grin.

Jazz watched it all, noting everything quietly.

"Alright," she said, tone brighter again, "there's a movie night happening downstairs and we are missing it."

Jazz stretched out his arms dramatically from where he leaned against the mirror, then casually hopped onto her open hand for him, lifting the mech to his usual place on her shoulder "Finally. If we miss one more dramatic scene with me in it, I'm staging my own version."

"It'd be better." Rhea laughed, encouraging him.

"Ya know it, darlin'." He winked with his usual charisma.

Behind them, Prowl straightened but lingered stiffly on the counter.

Jazz turned slightly to glance over at him. "You coming?"

"I have datapads to review," Prowl said, clearly uncertain.

Jazz tilted his helm with a grin in his voice. "Come on, Prowl. The team can survive five more minutes without your watch."

Prowl stared.

Jazz stared back, only he had a wide-ass grin on his face.

"...Very well," Prowl muttered at last.

Rhea was already halfway out the door when she noticed he hadn't moved. She stopped, looked back, and extended her hand.

Prowl looked at it like it was a mildly confusing data pad. Then, stiffly, very stiffly, he reached out and let her help him step carefully over the curve of the bathroom tile.

His frame didn't bend so much as adjust geometry one degree at a time.

Jazz, watching from her shoulder, snorted. "You move like someone installed caution tape in your joints."

"I move precisely," Prowl replied.

"Yeah," Jazz muttered, "like a spreadsheet in slow motion."

Rhea smothered a laugh as they descended the stairs, Rowan on her heels.

The living room was still glowing with soft TV light, the chaos of Transformers: The Movie in full swing.

Bluestreak was narrating too loudly from his pillow perch beside the kids. Bumblebee had fully integrated into the blanket nest while Grimlock lay behind them like a protective wall, the scout's wings twitching every time something intense happened in the film.

Skywarp was somewhere on the bookshelf. Wheeljack and Knockout were both dramatically judging the animation from near the rather progressed ground bridge, well, until he found he needed to make it much bigger to accommodate for their now-growing size. Meanwhile, Soundwave hadn't moved from the corner, still as a shadow.

Barricade, in alt mode under the coffee table, hadn't moved all night–except for the single cup of coffee someone had placed next to him like an offering–likely Jaxon or Calix considering they were sitting nearby, close to the screen.

Rowan claimed the armchair quietly, pulling a blanket over his lap with a content sigh.

Rhea approached the couch, noting Cora happily pointing things out for everybody by the TV.

On the couch, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, now about half of their full size but considerably larger, took up most of the space.

Sideswipe lounged with zero awareness of his size, one leg hanging over the edge, while Sunstreaker sat more rigid, silently judging the color palette on-screen considering he was not in the film currently on.

"Sunstreaker," she said sweetly, the slight bite hidden behind it. "Scooch?"

He looked at her without moving, arching an optic-ridge. "No."

She arched an eyebrow right back. "I thought we had something, Sunny. You let me talk and everything." 

He blatantly ignored her. 

Sideswipe glanced over since they were talking over the movie, then smirked at the opportunity. "Don't worry, babe. I've got manners." As usual, she ignored the nickname he insisted upon using.

He nudged his brother's leg with his own, then shifted just enough to create space, lowering his leg to make space rather than his sprawl from before.

Rhea sat down carefully between the twins in the new space, their newly enlarged frames crowding most of the couch but he had made enough room. She had to tuck her legs up to avoid brushing their armor directly, mostly Sunstreaker who hated being touched.

Sunset flared on-screen, lighting up Sunstreaker's armor in gold and orange. He didn't look away from the TV, but his optics narrowed slightly.

"You elbowed me when you sat," he voiced in annoyance.

"To be fair, I tried to avoid it, but you are spread across half the couch like a sulking lion," Rhea replied, fully honest.

"I'm allowed to be comfortable."

"You're allowed to stop being dramatic, Big Bird."

Sunstreaker's head snapped toward her. "What did you just call me?"

She gave him a bright, innocent smile. "Big Bird. Suits you with this new height ya got going on."

"Stop with the fragging nicknames."

"Say please."

Their bickering earned a sudden round of shushing from the floor–Bluestreak, Bumblebee, and even Calix all turning to glare in perfect sync.

"Shhhh!"

"Rhea!" Calix hissed.

"Don't make me rewind it again," Bumblebee muttered.

Rhea sighed and sank back into the cushion. "Fine," she whispered, silencing herself despite it being Sunstreaker's fault....

Sideswipe glanced down at her as she adjusted the throw blanket across her lap, taking her frustration out on the blanket that she flicked harshly once.

"If you get tired," he said casually, "you can lean on me. I'm kind of great for that now."

Rhea arched her brow at the red mech. "Kind of great, huh?" she teased.

He smirked. "Industrial-strength shoulder. Limited-time offer."

Jazz, still standing tall on her own shoulder, folded his arms like a mini guardian gargoyle. "Offer declined," he said lightly, neither able to really read him with his visor hiding if that smile was genuine, which it probably wasn't. "This shoulder's booked."

"Of course it is," Sideswipe muttered, just under his breath.

Jazz remained right where he was, arms crossed, silent and tall as ever–though we were just gonna ignore that he respectfully wasn't tall at the moment and fell short amongst his comrades.

But hey, he served as an untouchable wall no matter the universe, and right now, it was between her and him. Not that she noticed.

But Sideswipe did, making him silently chuckle. And maybe... Jazz did too.

Rhea stared at the screen, pretending to be invested in the clunky animation and explosions. But her eyes softened around the edges.

And all around her, everything was... still, in a warm way.

She almost didn't trust it.

Part of her kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to pull away, to look at her differently now that they knew.

But no one had.

Rowan in the chair, blanket half-draped over his legs. The kids curled into their bot pile. Barricade still stationed silently under the table. Jazz, a quiet presence against her. A lot of the bots milled about the room, multitasking and watching Transformers for the first time with much interest.

It didn't make sense, how easy they made it look.

How easy they made forgiveness feel.

And yet...

She let out a slow breath.

It was peaceful.

However temporary.

However fragile.

And it was hers, for right now, and she let it remain for the moment. 

Chapter 11: Nothing's Gonna Stop Us-

Summary:

"Species doesn't mean a damn thing when it comes to guardianship. Look at Sideswipe."

Rhea had no idea how it was only Tuesday. A week after the first growth-spurt?

The house was still chaotic as hell.

Again. Still?

Either way, somewhere behind her, she was fairly certain Skywarp had just broken a lamp and tried to reassemble it using sheer denial in hopes she didn't notice (she had, she was just choosing peace.)

The terror twins were about seven feet tall and very aware of it–especially Sideswipe, who had spent a solid five minutes blocking the kitchen doorway with his arms spread like a bouncer at a club.

And that was after sliding into the kitchen, literally. The red mech had actually slid across the tile to block her way in a dramatic ballad of "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now," which was playing from the speaker she had set up.

How he knew the lyrics? A fun thing called the internet...

"Let them say we're crazy, I don't care about that!" His optics were shut, helm tilted as he got into the music like it was his personal mission to recreate the energy of a 90's boy band. She's pretty sure he stole the idea from Kristof's Lost in the Woods ballad when they watched Frozen 2 for Cora's sake.

She sighed, staring at him with a cocked brow as he purposefully made himself a musically-driven wall that trapped her in the kitchen. He had a lot of fun with this new height advantage, and always sought to get on her last nerve.

And it was damn hard to get Rhea of all people to snap at you like Ratchet.

To him? That sounded like a challenge.

"Move." She huffed.

He ignored her in favor of extending a servo out in front of her. "Put your hand in my hand, baby," She smacked the black-colored servo out of her way. "Don't ever look back..."

Right when she tried to sneak past the gap beside him, he extended his arms and legs with the lyric, "Let the world around us just fall apart!"

"Sidesssss!" She groaned when he didn't stop, singing along dramatically.

"Baby, we can make it if we're heart to heart." His servos fell over his chassis where his spark-chamber resided, batting them both in and out toward her own heart (respectively downward given their new height difference) with the music.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

"–And we can build this dream together, standing strong forev–" Sideswipe's voice cracked mid-note as he tried to match the key change, his frame bouncing with laughter while he expertly lunged sideways to block her again.

His servo braced against the opposite wall as she tried to duck under his arm. "Nothing's gonna stop us now!"

"Stop it," Rhea hissed, dead serious. "I need to get to the living room."

"But do you?" he grinned, optics twinkling with mischief. He loved to push everyone's buttons when he was bored. "C'mon, you don't want to miss the grand finale, and if this world runs out of lovers," he sang, completely butchering the tempo now, "we'll still have each oooother–"

He gave a dramatic spin, one hand over his spark, one leg sweeping out as if performing on some invisible stage. Rhea tried to bolt for the small space between his knee joint and the wall, but he twisted at the last second like a seasoned soccer goalie, blocking her effortlessly.

"Nothing's gonna stop us—"

"I swear," she growled, "you're going to catch a kitchen knife to the knee joint if you don't MOVE."

Sideswipe cackled. "You're like... what? Five foot nothing? I am the wall."

"You are in my way."

"Same thing, babe."

"Do not babe me like this is some cheesy 80s romcom–"

"Nothing's gonna stop us--"

Rhea's hand shot out so fast he didn't even process what she was doing until her fingers curled around a familiar bundle of exposed wrist wires–

"OW!"

He yanked back like she was made of live voltage, flailing as she darted around him with the precision of someone who had absolutely had it. Her ponytail of blonde strands snapped across his red chassis as she breezed past.

The music blared on in the background.

"You're evil!" Sideswipe called after her, theatrically wounded.

"I met you like, a few months ago!" It had been closer to 6 months than she thought...

"And what traumatizing months it has been!"

"Primus," Sunstreaker groaned as he strolled in, "if one more of you sings that chorus again I'm breaking the speaker."

"Rude," Sideswipe huffed, cradling his arm like she'd dismembered him.

"Stop being annoying."

"She started it!"

"She exists. That's not the same."

Rhea's voice floated back from the hall. "I can hear all of you."

Sideswipe just beamed and cupped his servos to his intake, just to be a dick.

"AND NOTHING'S GONNA STOP US NOW!"

Thump. Came from the pillow she hurled from the couch as she passed it.

And that was how most of the day had been.

A mess.

The house had become a whirlwind of cleaning.

The place was a mess contribution from everybody, so, according to Rhea, everyone got to help clean it up. Autobots. Decepticons. Kids. Ratchet.

Even Grimlock.

"Grimlock no want clean," he'd said, stomping downstairs with zero shame.

Rhea didn't look up from the sponge in her hand. "Everyone's helping."

"Not Grimlock."

"Grimlock," Jaxon's voice called from the living room, "can you help me with this?"

Grimlock hopped down the last step and trotted toward the kid happily and without complaint in the assisted chore.

"Grimlock." Rhea gaped in disbelief, causing him to look back at her. She opened her mouth to voice her disbelief but no words came out, leaving her to gesture harshly as if to say 'what the hell?'

"Human youngling ask. Human femme demand," he snorted before continuing on his way to Jaxon.

Rhea turned back to her task. "Are you kidding me?"

It had been a long day.

And a long week.

It didn't help that her anxiety spiked at full volume constantly with the recent events of 'who the hell is going to grow and become another hazard?' and so far it was just the twins and Bumblebee. Ratchet was monitoring it constantly.

As for their way home, it was coming up on its end. It needed tweaks, according to Starscream when their trial run failed. Something about energon regulation, which they had to... donate? Their rations? Whatever... they needed to use what they had sparingly. So Starscream and Prowl were making sure the mad scientist was meticulous in his work.

She'd just finished wiping down the counter when she called up toward the stairs. "Ratchet! Your side of the 'medbay' needs to be cleaned by the time I'm up there! I'm saving my room for last!"

There was no answer.

She groaned.

Not to mention Rowan still wasn't home yet from school, which worried her, but she reminded herself he often stayed later.

But then Nellie, who was supposed to be here by now, was also late.

It caused a sinking feeling to reach her gut but she pushed it away as she stepped over a tiny pile of the kids' movie snacks (how they even made crumbs that small, she didn't know) and nearly tripped on Barricade, who was curled up in his alt-mode under the coffee table again. "You're supposed to be helping."

His engine revved as if a groan and he sped off toward the laundry room.

"Would you at least run the rinse cycle while you're in there?!"

There was no reply, but a simple look at Soundwave told her that it would get done.

Across the room, Cora skipped through with a now fully Bumblebee behind her, who was about 6'3 (thank god). The little girl was clutching a sheet of paper. Covered in owls.

"Bumblebee says this one looks like Jazz!"

"He's never gonna let that go," Rhea said with a chuckle.

But Cora was already scheming again.

She'd been doing it for days now, little "romantic" missions involving Jazz to get him to "show her he loved her." Which was...kind of Rhea's fault.

Thankfully Jazz played along all too willingly and hadn't asked her where this idea had come from.

And Cora had yet to realize she was about as subtle as a train crash.

Rhea had found a note taped to the coffee maker that morning, not intended for her:

Make her tea. Girls like tea. Use honey. Bees make honey. You're friends with Bee. That's romantic.

– Cora

P.S. You're welcome.

Jazz and Rhea had actually both read that "secret" note together.

She didn't expect him to actually do it when they laughed at her silliness. So colored Rhea surprised when he was offering the big mug to the blonde, and they both glanced at Cora peeking in from the hallway with glitter pens in hand and hopeful eyes.

Then yesterday, Jazz had shown up by the door with a poorly hand-drawn heart folded into origami and a flower glued to it. He claimed he "found it layin' around." Cora trailed behind him with a bag of glue and a proud grin.

Today's mission?

"Leave her a note with a poem!" she'd whispered to Jazz earlier. "Girls love poems. Even if they're sad."

"Sad?"

"Yeah, like... 'roses are red, I stubbed my toe.' That kind of thing."

Jazz had blinked, chuckling at her antics, "Ya sure this is a full proof way to show 'er."

"Duh!"

Rhea had found the poem on her pillow:

Roses are red,

This place is a zoo,

The twins keep growing,

But I'm still 10.2.

She'd laughed so hard, she cried.

Jazz had shrugged, smirking. "Don't look at me. It's anonymous."

Now, he was somewhere behind her, sitting on the table beside the sink, swinging his tiny legs and pretending he wasn't orchestrating child-led flirting sabotage missions.

He'd made peace with his size, for now. Even if he grumbled every time someone else grew. Especially when Bumblebee had glitched the day before and slumped against the hallway wall like a puppet with its strings cut.

Ratchet's voice rang from upstairs as if on cue.

"There was a spike!"

Rhea didn't even have time to turn her head before Chromia froze mid-step, her duster slipping from her hand.

And then, boom–a now full-size Chromia collapsed like a metal tree tipping sideways.

Bumblebee, passing by with Cora, dove for the femme, arms out, barely catching her before she cracked the floor.

Rhea closed her eyes, tossed her rag on the armrest, and tilted her head toward the ceiling. "Primus, help me."

"You're usin' our curse words again, darlin'."

"Yeah, yeah." Then louder, "Sideswipe!"

From the other room, "What?! I didn't do it!"

"Help Bee get Chromia upstairs!"

"Oh."

The red twin popped into view around the doorway with a sheepish shrug, then scrambled to grab one of Chromia's arms. Bumblebee huffed, repositioning the femme.

Tiny Ironhide was already at her side, trying to keep up, his optic twitching the longer they stood still.

"Alright, careful," Rhea said, already ahead of them as Bumblebee and Sideswipe maneuvered Chromia's unconscious, full-sized frame up the narrow hallway. She tried not to slip in her socks as she backed up the stairs to keep an eye on them, slightly uneven in her steps thanks to her still-sore foot.

"Her leg's caught on the banister," Bumblebee grunted, adjusting his grip.

"I told you the hallway was too narrow," Sideswipe complained, trying to pivot her shoulder out from scraping the wall. "Why does she have so many pointy pieces?"

"She's a war captain, not a pillow," Rhea muttered, bracing herself against the doorframe of the guest room and holding it open. "Sides, stop whining and lift."

"I am lifting!" he shot back.

Tiny Ironhide trailed behind them like an emotional support figure, glaring at every corner like he could will the walls to get out of their way.

"Move your pede, Bee," Rhea instructed and the mech adjusted before he could slip down the stairs that were not made for their size.

With one final, clunky shuffle, they made it awkwardly up the stairs. Bumblebee gently laid Chromia down on the mattress in the medbay as Rhea began talking to Ratchet. He needed her help with the examination and to make sure everything was in working order, like the last two times. Ironhide hopped up onto the bed to sit beside his sparkmate.

Bumblebee was first to retreat back downstairs with a wave of thank you from Rhea before she turned back to her conversation.

Sideswipe followed, making a "pffft" noise like he was totally insulted he didn't get the same wave and walked backward just to be dramatic.

Then he hit the doorframe with his shoulder.

"Son of a–"

"Watch your helm on the way out, dummy." she called back jokingly.

Sideswipe mocked her before catching up with Bumblebee, making sure to duck under the doorframe.

---

The chaos of mid-afternoon cleaning was somehow both efficient and absurd. Scrubbing bots whirred, dust floated like confetti, and Skywarp had accidentally vacuumed up three socks that definitely didn't match all because he wasn't big enough to operate it but tried anyway while using his thrusters. (He claimed it was an upgrade to the cleaning process since no one was coming back for them anyway; Thundercracker confiscated the vacuum.)

Amid it all, Cora danced through the living room like a tiny hurricane of authority, now wielding a clipboard she snatched from Rhea's room earlier (Ratchet pointed to it for her). It was half her size and she held a pink glitter pen that only worked half the time.

Of course, she wasn't really in charge, but nobody had told her that... Or maybe they had, and she'd promoted herself anyway.

Cora had long abandoned the idea of actually cleaning, but no one dared stop her as she marched around like the world's tiniest supervisor in sparkly mismatched socks.

Bumblebee buzzed nearby, doing the real work. Sort of.

He was mostly making sure she didn't trip over anything.

She stood in the center of the room with one socked foot up on a plush stool like a pirate on the bow of a ship.

"All right," she declared with a giggle, "Operation Clean Zone Delta Alpha Fox Trot Bubblegum is a go!" Prowl had tried to teach her some basics when she asked, but the six-year-old's attention span was short. She picked up only what she wanted to hear–mostly jargon.

Bumblebee gave a low chuckle from behind her, amused.

She spun to face him dramatically, pen to clipboard. "Assistant Bumblebee, report: have we made the perimeter shiny?"

"Affirmative, commander Cora," he played along.

She sang under her breath as she spun back forward, mostly to herself but loud enough for the bots nearby to hear.

They didn't interrupt. Why would they? This was peak entertainment.

"This house is filled with robots~ that came from outer spa-a-ace... Some were really tiny, but now they're in my fa-a-ace..."

Sideswipe, passing by with a stack of laundry Soundwave made him take down in an impassable sidequest, his confused optics remaining on her even as he walked. "What lyrics are those?"

Cora twirled dramatically in the center of the living room.

"When I'm older, I will understand it all... Why the toaster sparks and the ceiling's tall!" That was a few days ago when Wheeljack scrapped it for a specific part, and now the toaster no longer works.

"Hey, speaking of... I had a thought." Sideswipe finally stopped as he set down the laundry, now watching with open amusement.

"Oh, great." The room practically chorused, but he ignored them.

"Hey kid, not to ruin your... empire," he gestured vaguely to the clipboard, "but aren't you a little young to be, y'know, totally unfazed by this is... not exactly normal?" He was referencing the little lyrics she came up with on the spot

Cora turned to him, all wide-eyed innocence. "Nope!" she chirped.

"You live in a house with alien robots. Giant ones."

She grinned up at him and puffed her chest. "Exactly!"

Sideswipe blinked. "That wasn't a 'no.'"

Cora gave a very serious nod. "Everything will make sense when I'm older."

Bee let out a low chuckle, amused and knowing the red mech wouldn't get his desired answer–aka a realistic one. Instead, he explained where the song and idea of 'when i'm older' came from. "She just watched that human movie last night. Frozen 2. The one with the song that explains nothing."

"Oh, yeah..." Sideswipe recalled having watched it with them. "So that's what that song meant..."

"You didn't get it?"

"No, no. I did. I did."

"Denial!" Bluestreak chirped far too happily, shrinking back when Sideswipe snapped his helm in his direction. "I mean, what?"

Thundercracker chuckled as he passed through with a wet rag under his pedes as some sort of mop, bringing them back with the realization. "That explains a lot about today."

"She's been humming that song since morning," Bumblebee added. "And rewriting it."

"Because it's mine now," she said proudly. "My version is better. It's about real stuff. Which makes it better."

"Of course, of course."

"One day I'll know why they crash through doors~ and outgrow shoes and hate clean chores..." she began singing to herself under her breath in her own little world.

Sideswipe was clearly trying not to laugh. "So... all of this? Aliens growing taller every few days, surprise transformations, us coming into this reality–"

"It'll all make sense when I'm older!" she sang brightly. Then, in her best Soundwave impression, "This is optimal."

Skywarp snorted at that.

"Monitoring all productivity," she intoned seriously, then giggled like mad. "Soundwave voice makes everything more official!"

Cora kept walking, already halfway to the dining room table. "Initiating clean-up of table zone: estimated time–fifteen jazz songs."

Jazz, somewhere on the counter a few feet away as he joined the room and conversation at the perfect time, chuckled. "Gotta say, that's not a bad unit o' time, sweetspark."

Cora gave a thumbs-up without turning. "Jazz songs are the best way to measure everything. Rhea should try it."

"She probably will," Bee murmured with a chirp, padding after the little girl again.

Skywarp, leaning lazily against the wall, smirked and muttered to Thundercracker, "Think she'll still be this chipper when she figures out we're technically squatters from another dimension living rent-free in her house during the end of the world? That technically we caused."

Smack!

Starscream and Thundercracker both slapped the back of his helm in sync.

"OW. What the frag was that for?!"

"You know what it was for," Thundercracker said flatly, stalking off and back to do his task in a different corner of the room.

"Stop being a nuisance," Starscream hissed. "She's six!"

Skywarp rubbed the back of his helm, muttering, "You all act like I said 'frag' in front of her."

"You just did, twice." Starscream deadpanned.

Cora continued, unfazed. "When I'm older I'll understanddd what a 'frag' is and why Skywarp's banned..."

Bumblebee and Sideswipe laughed so hard they doubled over.

Bluestreak cringed, knowing she shouldn't know the word, or be saying it "Quick! Fix her from saying that! Rhea will strip us for parts and give them to Jackie!"

But Cora was already turning on her heel again, that conversation going right over her head. "Come on, assistant Bee. We have to check on the situation in the kitchen."

Bee nodded dutifully and followed, as always with an amused grin threaded onto his dermas.

"Remember," she whispered suddenly, drawing all of their attention, peeking around the corner. "Tell me if Jazz makes any progress with Rhea. I need to know."

Jazz leaned on one tiny elbow and muttered, a smile lingering on his faceplate, "I feel like I'm being stalked."

"You are," Sideswipe said helpfully, "By a literal youngling."

"She's got a clipboard," Bluestreak added as if she were as tactical as Prowl. "There's no stopping her now."

Bee was still laughing under his vents when she started humming again to herself, new lyrics floating from her lips like a fairytale.

It didn't make sense, not a bit of it, but somehow, this six-year-old girl with her owl stickers (from Rhea's drawer), her best Soundwave impression, and full belief in the future understanding of all this alien nonsense made it all feel... okay.

Somehow, everything would make sense. Eventually.

... Maybe.

Probably not.

But for now, Cora had a mission to run. And Bumblebee? Well, he was just glad to be her assistant.

---

Jazz had noted that they had mostly wrapped up the chaos of cleaning. The air was light, the kids were starting to settle back into their rhythm and were currently making themselves dinner for free night, even Cora had stopped giving everyone orders. The day was coming to an end...

Then the door opened.

All the bots, including himself, turned as Nellie stepped inside, and just a half-second behind her, Rowan.

His optics narrowed slightly under his visor as he observed the boy, the situation, the time. Something was off...

The bots glanced at one another, not a word shared but it seemed there was common thought amongst them.

"Nellie!" Cora cried happily, waving at them with the biggest grin on her face in spite of the tension in the room that went right over her little head. "Rowan! You're late for dinner! It's free night, so Bee is helping me make some–"

"Cora, do you know where Rhea is?" Nellie interrupted.

"Oh! Rhea's upstairs," Cora informed her cheerily, not thinking twice about it or the interruption. "She's probably in her room now, finally getting to clean it cause Ratchet is all done."

"Hmph." Ratchet huffed as his name was called, hearing it as he came downstairs–having been warned of the odd arrival and behavior by comm from Optimus. The medic had come down to scold the femme and youngling for worrying Rhea, who had chatted his audials off in worry during Chromia's check-up.

But he stopped at the field he ran into, narrowing his optics in a glaring manner toward Nellie.

Meanwhile, Jazz's optic didn't leave the teenage boy standing there quietly.

Rowan looked... off. His face was paler than usual, and his hands kept tightening and loosening at his sides. Jazz caught the twitch in his jaw.

Something was wrong.

"I'll talk to her," Nellie murmured quickly before Rowan could open his mouth.

"I can–"

"I'll handle it."

Her tone made a few bots straighten.

"Whatcha need ta talk about?" Jazz attempted to keep that casualness despite how wrong he felt about this.

She dismissed him with a quick, brittle smile. "It's just sister stuff. Don't worry about it"

But Jazz didn't buy it. Neither did Optimus or Ratchet, if the way they lingered nearby was any indication. All of the bots radiated distrust and suspicion, even the Cons–which was saying something to Jazz considering they rarely agreed on anything.

Nellie was already halfway up the stairs, stepping over Ratchet.

Rowan stayed for a moment, guilt painted all over his face. Jazz stepped beside him, visor dim as his processor clicked, and Prowl came to the other side like a wall, subtle but unyielding.

Jazz, Prowl, and Rowan were quietly heading upstairs as a conversation ensued inside Rhea's room, and he duly noted that Ratchet, Optimus, Elita, and a few others had followed.

Jazz stood quietly near the door, visor dimmed, one servo braced against the frame as he leaned just close enough to catch every word without making a sound. His expression didn't change, but every syllable from the room pressed deeper into his processor.

Inside, the conversation was already rising in tension.

"You're late," Rhea said, not biting but tired, like her soul was frayed at the edges. There was the soft rustle of her folding laundry, some mundane rhythm anchoring her. "I've been texting."

"I figured," Nellie replied smoothly, too smoothly. "Rowan was with me, so that should count for something."

From where he stood behind Jazz, Rowan shifted uncomfortably, jaw clenched.

Jazz heard Rhea's voice again, quieter this time. "And?"

A pause.

Nellie's finally was out with it. "The Talos program needs more recruits. The war's getting worse, Rhea. There aren't enough of us anymore."

The air changed.

There was no gasp, no dramatic crash like when she had dropped the mug, but even through the cracked door, Jazz could feel it.

The way Rhea stopped moving.

How the weight of that sentence dropped like a boulder on her back.

"I'm not having this conversation again," she said. She was so tired of the pushing to get her to do something she didn't want to do.

"You have to."

"No. I don't."

Jazz's optics shifted at the sound of little steps, he and the others looked to see the kinds lingering at the top steps, wondering where everybody went.

A quick come to Sideswipe, Bumblebee, Sunstreaker, and Chromia–who were big enough to keep them from coming back up–told them to keep them occupied downstairs.

Bumblebee immediately began to gently coax them back down. "C'mon, I think Rhea said you guys could have those green cans tonight!"

"Silly! Those are Sprites, Bee."

"Right, right."

"I think the movie's still rolling, and you guys still haven't shown me in Bayverse, have you? " Sideswipe added to it, Bluestreak–though small-padded after them protectively to join Calix.

"Bayverse isn't good."

"Well, just show me the scene I'm in then."

Jazz and the others, with the kids safely downstairs, tuning back in with unreadable expressions. Though it was hard to miss how Rowan looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

Nellie's voice dropped. "It's not about you."

"Then why are you in my room talking about this?" Rhea shot back, sharp now.

"You think I want to be the one to tell you that we're running out of options? That the war's worse than ever?" Her voice broke a little, but she kept going. "We need more fighters."

"I'm tired of hearing about what you need."

"I'm not talking about me," Nellie snapped. "I'm talking about everyone else. About those kids downstairs. About the families hiding in the caves we still haven't reinforced. We do this to protect them."

Rowan flinched, Jazz barely moving as he peeked a little closer to the crack as silently as possible in time to see Rhea dropped the shirt in her hand and firmly looked at Nellie. "Don't talk to me about protecting them."

Her voice wasn't raised and that somehow made it worse.

"I'm the only one who's been here."

Nellie took a step forward, closing some distance in the heat of the moment between them. "You think being here, wiping noses and kissing scraped knees, is enough to fix the world?"

"No," Rhea said, voice calm but firm with an intense look in her eyes. "But it's enough to make theirs safer."

"You can't hold this whole world together with bedtime stories, Rhea!" Nellie finally raised her voice to a yell. "You're hiding down here like you're not needed out there."

"You think I don't want to help?" Rhea finally raised her voice in return, causing them to comm the bots downstairs.

:: Turn the TV up. ::

"You think I don't care? That I haven't tried? But every time I leave, something bad happens. Someone gets hurt. And I chose this."

Nellie's face twisted. "You chose to give up."

"I chose them."

"You chose the easy way out."

"I chose the only way that doesn't get kids killed!"

Silence thundered between them.

And then, quieter, "He joined."

There was a beat, everybody going rigid.

"What?"

"Rowan. He's in. I trained him."

Rhea's world tilted.

Outside the door, Jazz tensed. Rowan's fists clenched.

"I didn't want to spring it on you like this," Nellie continued, somehow thinking she was making it better, "But you left me no choice."

"He's fifteen."

"He's capable."

"He's a child."

"He's capable." Nellie's voice didn't waver. "They don't care about age restriction anymore because we are losing. And there are not enough of us to fight back."

Rhea sounded like she was trying to breathe through fire, only focused on one thing alone that truly mattered to her. "You used him. You used Rowan."

"I didn't force him. He made the choice."

"You made sure I wasn't there to stop it."

Jazz glanced down at Rowan, who was motionless. He stared at the floor like it could erase him. And he could practically hear her pacing, not giving him a clear view of her anymore, but he could imagine the worn look on her face, the slight tremble in her fingers she always tried to hide.

"You think you're the only one who lost something? We all did." Nellie pushed on but paused to change her tone where genuine sympathy crept in, softer this time. "I'm sorry your mother died. I'm sorry your father is deadbeat and couldn't stick around for you. I'm sorry you got left with a house of kids and no idea what to do with them. But that's just how that one went, Rhea."

"That's not–" She was reading this all wrong.

"I know you didn't have much of a childhood," Nellie's sympathy mixed with anger made the apology fall short, and it made Jazz's servos clench tight at his sides. "But that's over. That's gone. We're living in a war zone and you've got six-year-olds in this house who still believe in Santa Claus. The only one thinking about reality is Rowan because you're wasting time pretending you can keep them all safe by baking cookies and hiding from the truth."

"They are safe," Rhea snarled, Jazz showing self-restraint as her EM field flared in hurt and anger. "Because I kept them that way. You want to talk about sacrifice? You want to talk about loss? I gave everything for them. And now you want to drag Rowan out into it?"

And then Rowan, finally, finally, spoke as he pushed the door open and found the 20 seconds of courage to step in. "It was my decision."

Jazz looked at him from outside, all now aware And Rhea's voice went still. "Rowan..."

"I'm not a kid."

"You are," she said, stepping toward him as her voice cracked at the edges. "You are, and I'm not doing this. You are not doing this. We can have this conversation again if it's what you want to do when you're 18."

"You don't get to decide what I'm ready for." His voice wasn't cruel, just hardened and quiet. Almost defeated.

"I do when it comes to this," she shot back. "You're fifteen."

"Fifteen is old enough!" he yelled back in defense. "Kids younger than me are fighting out there! You don't get it!"

"Of course I get it!" Rhea said, trying, desperately trying, to keep her composure. "But you don't fully understand what you're getting into. You're just–"

"Just what?" he challenged. "A kid?"

"Yes!"

Nellie stepped in again, cold and steady. "This is exactly what I've been trying to say. He's not a child anymore."

"He is," Elita said from the hallway, her voice cutting like steel. The bots couldn't handle not intervening anymore "And you never should have hidden this from her. She is Rowan's guardian and had every right to know."

"She would've stopped it," Nellie snapped.

"Fragging right she would've," Ratchet growled right back, glaring at her.

"He's not your property, Rhea! He's not even your kid!" Nellie exasperated. "He made a choice–"

"And you made sure it was the only one," Jazz snapped suddenly, stepping forward. His visor gleamed as his voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "You manipulated a kid into thinking war makes him worth something. Don't act like this wasn't your design."

The woman rounded on him. "Oh, great. The aliens have opinions now."

"You're lucky all I have is an opinion at this height," Jazz muttered, stepping closer with a dangerous look. "Because if you think what you did was justified, you're more of a threat than the war outside. In either dimension."

The arguing went on and on, back and forth.

Nellie, Rhea, the Autobots, the Decepticons, they all spoke on top of one another until–

"Stop!" Rowan yelled, his voice shaking. "Just stop! All of you!"

The room stilled.

"I made the decision," he said again, chest heaving. "You think I'm too young. You think I don't get it. But I do. You guys have to get it a little!" He looked to the Autobots, "You let Bee fight, didn't you? I don't know how old he was when he started but–"

"He was not as young as you, Rowan." Optimus cut in calmly.

"But he's still young! What's the difference?" He took a breath. "Look, I know the risks. I know I could die. I still said yes because I just want to help you guys." His voice cracked as it finally came falling past his lips.

And Jazz could see the way it shattered Rhea hearing that, and then came her voice, barely a whisper. "You can help, Ro. There's other ways to help. I'm just trying to–"

"I want to do this! I want to help protect people."

"And I want to protect you."

You're not my mom."

The words landed like a gut punch and every bot in the room felt her EM field convulse.

Jazz visibly stiffened, optics shooting right for her, though she didn't speak. Her shoulders dropped an inch. Just one.

Her lips parted but no sound came out.

Rowan looked away, guilt spilling from his shoulders from the words uttered in the heat of an argument, but he was still upset. He was still worked up and emotional over being told no. "You always treated me like I was yours, but you're not."

Ratchet's jaw clenched.

"Enough," Prime finally said, stepping forward with a weight behind the word that demanded silence. "You've made your position clear, Rowan. But you will not speak to her like that again. Rhea does not deserve to have them said to her."

Nellie scoffed, dismissive. "So now they're parenting too."

"Shut it," Ironhide snapped, taking pleasure in the way it made her flinch a little.

"We are not having a war in this room," Elita said firmly, cutting the conversation short beside her sparkmate. "It's best if we wrap this up before the children overhear." The TV was blaring downstairs, having risen in volume because of Sunstreaker holding the remote and clicking up on the volume button every time their voices raised higher upstairs.

Nellie took a step back, fury still radiating from her like a pulse. "You're all so nice," she muttered in disbelief, almost disgust. "Not good. Not bad. Just... nice. That's the problem. That's why you'll lose back in your world, too."

"You're not welcome here," Rhea said at last the moment she started to say such harsh things to the Autobots in the room. Her voice was hoarse but steady. "Get out."

"You know I'm right."

"Get. Out."

For once, Nellie didn't argue.

She stomped out, soon followed by a door slam downstairs. Rowan left shortly after that, stomping to his room with a similar door slam.

Rhea muttered about checking in on the kids but Prime was quick to say that they would take care of it, that she should take a moment.

And as much as she wanted to go downstairs and put on a smile and act like everything was fine to the other three, she physically couldn't right now.

They trailed out of her room to giver her space, and Rhea collapsed onto the bed the second the last bots' pedesteps, Elita's, faded. She didn't even care that the door was left open as her body gave out before her mind could catch up. Her knees barely made it to the edge of the mattress before she folded in, head in her hands, fingers trembling where they pressed into her scalp.

Everything hurt. Her throat. Her chest. Her face from holding it together too long.

Optimus, Jazz, and Ratchet were the ones to linger near the door when they thought she was gone, and Prime was the only reason Jazz hadn't stomped right in there.

After a quiet commlink conversation, while she spiraled inside her room, it was deemed for one mech to go in.

Ratchet.

He'd climbed up the makeshift stack of textbooks near her desk and was now flipping through the thick medical guide she'd lent him days ago. His small frame was a constant in this chaos–unmoved and unreadable. But his optics, barely lifted from the page, tracked her carefully.

She was grateful he didn't say anything about the argument, or say something like 'are you okay?' because the obvious question held the power to snap her patience in half right now.

But, eventually, she did pull herself upright. She dragged a breath into lungs that still felt too tight and spoke through the hollow in her voice. "Any... idea when Wheeljack will finish the bridge?" It was a poor attempt at starting anyconversation.

"Assuming no more spontaneous improvements during the trial runs?" Ratchet muttered, flipping a page without looking up. "Two weeks, give or take."

She nodded slowly.

Then laughed.

Well, she tried. The sound that came out was flat and brittle, practically broken.

"Figures. I was gonna suggest giving the big ones their own closet soon. Can't keep them a secret when their helms keep scraping the ceiling."

He made a small grunt.

The sarcasm didn't land, but she hadn't really meant it to.

"Don't need any more secrets unraveling, do we?" she added after a pause, voice barely above a whisper.

It hung in the air. Her poor attempt at adding humor to the fresh wound.

And though they hung up on her, the thought of them leaving was now her sole focus in the havoc that took over her head.

She wondered about that day she hadn't realized was so close. When they left... what would she have left?

They'd go. They had to. That was always the plan, to get them home.

But that meant the kids would lose them. Lose their protectors. Their friends. Their strange, wonderful, metal family.

And after tonight, she wasn't entirely sure she could handle–

Her throat clenched.

"I've been thinking... I guess I never really had the courage to suggest it until now. But twenty seconds and all..." Her voice faltered, but she pushed through. "...Maybe the kids should go with you."

That did make Ratchet pause.

He turned a page far too sharply, then looked up at her with his optics narrowed, as if offended. "I beg your pardon?"

Rhea wiped quickly at her cheeks with her sleeve when he looked at her as if that could stop the few tears escaping the rim of her eyes. "They'd be safer," she said, voice breaking despite her effort. "I mean, look at this place. This world. I clearly can't even keep them away from a war that wasn't supposed to be theirs."

"They are not going–"

"I just want them to live!" she snapped, louder than she meant to. It came straight from her shattered heart, and he could feel every broken emotion in her field. "To grow up. To have something. I couldn't even protect Rowan from..." She cut herself off, biting her lip, wiping again, shaking her head as she collapsed forward, elbows on her knees, face in her hands.

"I'm not cut out for this. I thought I could do it. I thought I was strong enough, smart enough, but I didn't even see it happening. Right under my nose, and I didn't see it."

Ratchet closed the book, his expression unreadable. And he didn't even realize the true weight of how that affected her. He didn't have the whole story.

"They're going to leave," she whispered, as if trying to come to terms with this decision out loud. "And I-I'll just stay here becaus–"

"Stop."

Her head jerked up.

Ratchet stood straighter, arms crossed, voice low but pointed. He stomped right to the edge of the desk, at eye-level with her. "Rhea, look at me."

She blinked back the wetness in her eyes, following what he asked with much confusion about what he might say.

"You think the measure of a guardian is whether or not you see everything? Prevent every misstep? Have some perfect plan?"

She didn't answer.

"Do you think I became a medic because I never failed?"

Ratchet let out a vent before he pointed to his optics. "How many optics do I have."

"Two?" She sniffled.

"How many eyes do you have?"

"Ratchet, where are you going with thi–"

"Just answer, youngling."

She let out a shaky sigh before complying, "Two."

"Look, an intake. A processor, or brain in your terms, though yours needs sleep." He shook his helm slightly, but in every ounce of seriousness he could muster, he asked, "And what did I ask you to listen to for the twins the other cycle?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Their... Their sparkbeats."

"Put a hand to your chest."

Rhea's hand slowly found her chest, palm facing inward as the light rhythm touched her skin. "You have a similar beat with your heart, do you not?"

It was clearly very suddenly where he was going with this. "We're not the same," she murmured.

"We are where it counts," he shot back firmly, but the lowness in volume remained. "So what in Primus's designation makes you think we're any more qualified?"

She looked down again, lip trembling and without answer.

"Nellie thinks protecting them is weakness." he scowled, though it was not directed at her. "Let me tell you, there are warriors who can't lift that kind of weight. So I wouldn't call it weakness. Especially not when you had to do it as a youngling yourself."

Rhea looked down at her lap, at the faint stains of paint on her jeans. Her hands folded tighter, until her knuckles turned white.

It was no mystery that Rhea had been forced to grow up very fast, and she didn't always get it right. Some might say she was not fit to fill the role of parent, but these kids had no one but her, and she made damn sure they were loved. That was plenty.

Ratchet continued flatly, "Species doesn't mean a damn thing when it comes to guardianship." He then gestured vaguely toward the door."Look at Sideswipe."

Despite herself, she gave a tiny, hiccupped laugh.

Ratchet's intake twitched.

"Exactly," he went on, feeling her EM field lighten ever so slightly. "They don't need a war hero. Because there is no one in the world that loves them and has been there for them as much as you right now. That is the best kind of protection and healing one can offer, and I'm a medic. I know these things.."

She let the air out of her lungs, slow and shaky.

"You're doing fine, Rhea."

She swallowed hard and gave a small nod, but her eyes were still shining.

Finally, he added with a vent, "And for Primus's sake, don't let guilt talk you out of being the one they run to."

"...I'm just scared," she whispered finally, utterly vulnerable in admitting this because of the mindset drilled into her by others. But something about this type of conversation made her open up. She hadn't been in this position before...

"Good. Means you care."

Her shoulders sagged as she let the words settle, but Ratchet turned back to the book, giving her a little space again.

"You're not alone in this, as much as you believe you are.."

She turned her head slightly toward him, but he didn't look at her. He just flipped the next page of the large book below him.

"And we are not going anywhere until we can ensure all of your safety and well-being. Prime's orders." He said it so gruffly despite the caring undertones.

Rhea let her head fall into her hands again, but this time it was not from despair.

Just... processing.

Until she asked softly, voice hoarse but determined to lighten the air instinctively, "You always this inspirational?"

"I'm always right," he muttered without missing a beat.

This time, she really did laugh. Just once, so cracked and emotional but it was genuine. And Ratchet, without even looking up, allowed the faintest upward twitch of his dermas.

Now to get Jazz to stop bothering him and yapping in his comm about coming in to check on Rhea... 

Chapter 12: Somebody Who Listens

Summary:

"You ain't failed him. And if someone's makin' you feel like you have... maybe they ain't really hearin' you."

The house felt as though it exhaled for the first time after holding in an excruciating long breath, though Jazz couldn't really say he experienced such a thing himself, but it felt right.

Upstairs, muffled footsteps hinted at life. Prime and the other officers were still in their little base, still discussing the next steps–both for the Autobots and the humans tangled in their lives.

But not Jazz.

Jazz wasn't there because Jazz had made a choice the moment Rhea left her room from her conversation with Ratchet.

He'd lingered in the hallway, feigning distraction, wandering downstairs after being dismissed shortly to keep an eye on her–not that anyone needed to tell him twice.

The living room around the time of 1 AM was lit only by the dim flicker of one lamp and her laptop. There was soft music playing from the speaker on the coffee table with warm, echoing vocals and steel strings that hummed like they knew sadness personally.

Jazz had learned months ago that she tended to play music that resonated with how she was feeling. And he could only smile when he found out, as a music lover himself.

Ironhide had groaned about the fact that now there were two that knew every song that came on.

He quietly jumped down the last step, looking to where Rhea was curled sideways on the floor in front of the coffee table, a blanket draped over her shoulders, coloring with much focus.

A children's coloring book sat open before her, and she held a red crayon in her fingers like it was the only thing holdingher together.

Sunstreaker was nearby, a safe distance, long legs folded up in a way that made him look more annoyed than relaxed.

He wasn't saying much, just occasionally reaching for a new colored pencil in the pile between them and muttering under his breath whenever she commented on his work with some sort of compliment. He didn't know how to accept those.

Don't get the wrong idea. Sunstreaker was not here to be nice. The last thing on his processor was helping any humiewith distracting themselves from heavy emotions. He could shudder at the thought. No, he was here because the art supplies were down here and Cora's room was off-limits when she slept.

He'd be damned if anyone called him a liar.

"You shaded outside the line again," he said gruffly, not looking at her but somehow knowing she was doing it wrong.

"It's a coloring book," she muttered back, voice still small. "Not the Sistine Chapel."

"You drew a darker rim inside the black outline for a reason, but even with that you can't even scribble in lighter lines that you made." It was true. She colored like a child.

"Okay, Picasso. Not everybody is as talented as you."

"I'm glad you can admit it.

Jazz stayed still for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, observing the two. He had been following her around, finding any excuse for conversation before he was called to the officer meeting–the meeting he got out of within the hour.

He had to admit, the room was pretty cozy despite the two that butted heads/helms since the moment they met. Rhea and Sunstreaker in the same room with nothing but a light bicker in their peace? It was a damn miracle.

What made his spark clench was the smile Rhea wore, but it didn't reach. Not really.

Her EM field betrayed her and Jazz felt it the second he stepped in. He felt the low, aching waves of guilt and confusion and grief all jumbled together in a quiet fog that had hardly dimmed from the argument that occurred mere hours ago. Everybody was asleep now, and Rowan had yet to leave his room.

"What we got goin' on here?" Jazz said softly, announcing his presence as he strolled in.

Neither of them jumped, but Rhea looked over first, eyes tired, but she still offered him a smile."Hey, shortstack."

Jazz stepped toward her, climbing up her knee for a better view. "Mockin' my height ain't very nice, darlin'."

"Mocking? I'd never."

He chuckled with the shake of his helm as he looked down to see what she was coloring, only for her to flip the page to show him one of her finished ones. "Behold... C-3PO himself."

"She colored me wrong," Sunstreaker said the moment she showed Jazz the colored-in Sunstreaker, as though that was the greatest crime of the century.

"She made your optics that purplish color," Jazz noted as a compliment to what she did get right. To be fair, she couldn't find the right yellow so now he looked more like Bumblebee.

"I don't have a gold crayon or pencil" Rhea huffed. "Next time I'll use glue and glitter to add to your sparkle."

"Bite me."

Jazz chuckled at her words before asking, "You ain't gonna draw me?" He pretended he was offended.

The jokes on him, though, because Rhea smirked slightly and flipped a few pages back to show him his own page.

The page in question had his visor colored neon blue with a rainbow-colored boombox strapped to his back. There were hearts around his head. It looked like Cora had helped at one point.

Jazz put a servo over his spark. "I'm touched."

"Cora did the hearts."

"I figured."

Sunstreaker rolled his optics briefly but continued coloring. This caused her to flip back to her original page, bringing the red crayon back onto the unfinished Cybertronian as she colored their chassis.

"Hey, do you know who she is?

Jazz leaned closer to the page she was working on now, observing the red femme with the Decepticon insignia on her armor. She seemed to be more of a background character in the coloring book lineup of figures, but something about the design felt... haunting.

She spoke as she colored. "Sunstreaker didn't recognize her, but that's unsurprising because he only focuses on his own finish–"

Sunstreaker narrowed his optics at her the longer she spoke before reaching out and flicking her wrist–not too hard, but enough that her red crayon dragged a jagged line across the page and out of the lines.

"Hey! Asshole."

He smirked.

But Jazz stared a second longer on the art. Something tugged at his processor. Like memory static.

But... nothing surfaced.

"Don't know ‘er," he admitted, finally. But she only hummed and continued to work.

Before Rhea could answer, Jazz flicked his gaze sideways, across to Sunstreaker, and gave a small, deliberate nod toward the stairs.

Sunstreaker ignored him.

Jazz opened a commlink with him.

:: Ya think you can give us some privacy? I wanna talk to 'er. ::

:: I was here first. ::

:: And served your time. Scram. ::

Sunstreaker glare at him. :: Make me. ::

:: Alright, I guess Prowler has been wonderin' who pulled that glitter-bomb prank back at base. I'll send word that it was the two of ya. ::

Sunstreaker stared as Jazz grin grew smugly.

With a loud groan of utter dramatics, Sunstreaker stood muttering a lame excuse that Sideswipe was calling him.

Rhea looked up briefly, waving, "G'night, Sun. I'll save your drawing.."

"Keep your horrid coloring away from it."

She saluted jokingly. "Yes, sir daffodil."

"Don't call me that."

Sunstreaker gave Jazz a look as he passed and headed upstairs. But Jazz didn't acknowledge it, merely waiting for his steps to fall away.

The music continued, something soft, something plucked and echoing like rain on glass. Jazz watched her color, a quiet air falling on them.

The dim room was lit mostly by her laptop's glow on the coffee table and the gentle pulse of the speaker. Rhea continued coloring with the occasional streak going rogue toward the edge of the page while Jazz quietly asked if he could see her music.

She lifted him up to the coffee table, and he perched himself beside the speaker, legs dangling off the edge like a throne just his size.

It became a game of which song Jazz would let play longer than a minute, determined to see everything she had and which he liked the most.

The soft click of him skipping a song became very familiar.

Then another skip.

The music shifted with each flick of his servo, cutting from one genre to the next like he was flipping through her thoughts instead of her playlist.

"You ever listen to anything the whole way through?" Rhea murmured, switching pencils with a chuckle.

Jazz didn't look at her, merely smirking. "When it earns it."

She huffed lightly, barely more than a breath, but there was a smile behind it.

The next track started with a slow, warbling synth. A few seconds in, Jazz made a face and skipped it.

"That one was vibey," Rhea complained, not looking up as her scribbles grew a little faster to fill a big area.

"Vibey ain't the same as good." he countered, proceeding to use her description of it.

She shrugged. "Fair."

A lo-fi drumline crackled through the speaker, then a soft voice overlaid with static. Jazz let that one play for a while.

Rhea adjusted the blanket over her legs, still coloring.

Jazz let the next track roll without skipping.

It shifted slowly, and then something changed.

Piano.

"Can....anybody.... find me... somebody to.... love..."

Rhea's head popped up slightly. "Oh, wait. Leave it. I like this one."

Jazz paused, servo hovering over the controls before he settled back without a word to listen to the one song she opposed skipping.

He watched carefully as she slightly swayed her head to the beat, humming barely above a whisper as her hand scribbled on the page.

And it was impossible to stop the smile from stretching onto his dermas as she began to mouth the lyrics, so he wouldn't dare skip this nor bother to even reach for the next track.

Jazz just leaned back against the speaker, arms folded loose, one leg swinging slowly over the edge like he had all the time in the world.

The song filled the space between them, big piano, louder than most of what had played tonight, but somehow not too much. The singer's voice wrapped the room in something that felt older than the war, louder than grief, but warm like an old coat.

She mouthed the words under her breath like she'd sung them a thousand times before. Her eyes were half-closed when the chorus hit, and she grinned like she could feel it all the way down in her bones. It was refreshing to see, to feel in her field, after the events of today.

And she didn't seem to notice the way he watched her.

Or maybe she did and said nothing.

Jazz tilted his helm, visor dim in the laptop's glow with a small grin he didn't bother to hide. And Primus, if he didn't admire the way her shoulders loosened when the notes did. How her pencil had slowed, but not stopped. How she filled in the coloring page like it didn't need to be perfect to be beautiful.

"You really like this one," he observed, voice low, smooth with that warm Cybertronian rasp.

She softly smiled without looking up. "Mhm. One's of my favorites. It's Queen," she explained as if that offered clarity to the alien unfamiliar with Earth's music.

"Your royal hierarchy made music like this?"

His spark melted when she laughed. "No, no. It's a band. They called themselves that."

"Ah." Jazz tilted his helm, watching the way she mouthed the next line with too much familiarity to be casual.

He took a brief moment to look up the band for some more conversation openings, leading to his next words. "Oh, so ya like the older stuff?"

She snorted under her breath. "Depends what you mean by old."

Jazz chuckled, ​"Ya got a different definition of old?"

She looked at him. "Of course I do. You got Ratchet old then you have Optimus old. Two different things."

"Don't let the Hatchet hear ya say that." He laughed with her at his quiet joke before saying, "Alrigh'. Vintage, then?"

"That's worse," she snickered. "You're just trying to say I listen to Ratchet-old music."

"Hey, I neva said that. This is good," he said, holding both servos up, still smiling. "It's got soul. Trust me, I would know."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Back on Cybertron, before the war," he suddenly whispered like it was a secret, "we had clubs where the music felt like it could pull your spark right outta your chassis. You walked out breathless, as you humies say. I DJ'd a few sets like that."

She perked up slightly. "You were a DJ?"

"'Course I was," he said casually. "You don't get style like mine without soul."

That earned a quiet giggle from her.

Jazz's smirk softened into something gentler.

"That's why I can tell that you're a rhythm person," he read her like a book, open with his interpretation. "Ya live in the rise and fall of sound."

She didn't say anything, but her smile deepened.

He studied her a moment longer, then glanced toward the screen. There was a small opening here, and he was careful with how he danced around it."This one feels like it's got a memory behind it."

Rhea hesitated, then shrugged softly. Not in a guarded way, just shy. "Nationals. I think I was... ten? Eleven? I danced to this song in a costume that could signal satellites. I think I was shedding glitter for a month." She shook her head, grimacing at that last part.

Jazz huffed a quiet laugh, soaking up every word she revealed. "Sounds like you lit up the stage." He didn't even think she realized she was opening up, but he was about to point it out and ruin it.

"I don't even remember if I placed," she spoke softly, seemingly lost in a happy memory he wished he could see. "But I remember the lights. How quiet the audience got when the chorus hit. I remember thinking, this is what flying feels like."

The next song began to fade in, but neither of them noticed at first.

Jazz leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, visor catching a bit of her laptop's glow.

"I would've liked to see that," he said, soft enough to be mistaken for part of the music.

Rhea looked at him for a moment.

And then, with a small nod, "...Wanna?"

His helm lifted slightly. "You got a vid of it?" But he was more eager at the fact she would show him.

"Mmhm. Hold on."

She tucked the coloring book aside and leaned over the coffee table, rummaging through a bin until she pulled out an old plastic CD case that was scratched, warped at the corners, its label written in smeared red marker: Rhea's Comp Vids

There was a small doodled owl next to the title.

Jazz leaned in. "Now that's vintage." Or so he had heard.

"Don't judge. This thing's survived more than most."

She slid the disc into her laptop's external drive. The screen buzzed, then turned blue, then loaded with that grainy, familiar hum of an old camcorder.

Rhea lifted Jazz up and gently settled him against her shoulder, where he leaned into the fabric of her hoodie like it was instinct.

The footage flickered to life, and there she was.

Ten, maybe eleven, just like she had said, but he only had Jaxon's age for reference. Her hair was pinned in a neat bun, eyes sharp under the lights as the crowd cheered as the music began. Her costume shimmered in teal and brown, stylized feathers extending from her arms, and just like she had mentioned, the sparkles all over her costume and her skin shimmered brightly under the stage lights.

Jazz didn't say anything, but his smile deepened. He didn't outwardly admit he was recording the memory for later, as if the impossibility of him forgetting the way she spun like gravity had no effect on her. Her technique screamed ballerina, but she clearly preferred to mix it up with emotional contemporary.

She moved with such focused intensity. The kind of sharpness that came from someone who needed the music, not just enjoyed it. He was familiar with the feeling.

Her arms stretched high as the piano swelled, and when the chorus hit, can anybody find me... she leaped like the air might catch her.

A small voice burst through the grainy mic, high, excited, and absolutely untamed.

"GOOO RHEA!!"

The camera jerked to spin around and there they were... Two little boys, side by side in the audience. One boy had bouncy, blond tufts of hair and marker smudges on his cheeks, was practically bouncing out of frame, both hands cupped around his mouth. Another boy who could've been his carbon copy, though looked a lot more put together, grinned beside him, signing fast with small, expressive hands, his hoodie sleeves (which clearly did not belong to him) half-pulled over his fists.

And Rhea huffed a breath that might've been a laugh.

Jazz recognized these boys instantly.

They were the ones in the photograph. One of them was in that drawing in her music box.

Icarus and Sorren, was it? On the back of that photo?

Jazz put two and two together and glanced at her, visor soft in the light. "Those your brothers?"

She nodded, her smile small but real. "Yeah. Sorren's the one yelling. Always was loud... And Icarus–" she gestured gently, fingers fluttering, "he's the one signing."

Jazz remembered when she explained the personal sign she had taught the kids that lived here, and he hadn't believed her when she said it was "just something she picked up."

Now he knew why she knew ASL.

"He's deaf, but he was louder than most kids without ever saying a word."

Jazz's intake twitched upward, glancing thoughtfully between the screen, showing the boys excited before flipping the camera back around as Rhea leaped and rolled to the floor, and her. "He's got a hell of a smile."

"They both did," she reminisced. "They were six when this was filmed. Used to come to all my recitals and competitions." You know... before the world fell into disarray.

He let her talk, a part of him wanting her to never stop.

She didn't always look at him when she did, eyes still flicking toward the screen, watching her younger self reach out toward the audience, biting back a grin at what Sorren was screaming at her in support before falling back into her routine as the chorus kicked in again. It led into a series of fouettes–aka, very difficult turns–as the build-up of the lyric "find me somebody to love...find." repeated faster and faster as the music built.

"Icarus liked when I did turns. He'd sign the word for spin and then keep doing it until I got dizzy." She chuckled to herself at the memory. "Sorren would try to copy the routines in the hallway at home and fall into everything."

Jazz gave a soft hum of amusement. "They sound like they kept you busy."

"They kept me..." she trailed off, then shook her head with a faint laugh. "Yeah. Busy."

He didn't say anything, just listened, servo still resting on her.

"They remind me of the twins a bit," she said suddenly, then gave a half-apologetic smile as if she shouldn't have brought it up. Admitted what she was thinking... But she laughed in hopes it would make light of the heavier aspects of admitting, "It's kinda why I didn't really get along with them at first. Memories, I guess." To be fair, Sunstreaker and her still didn't really get along, but that was beside the point.

But Jazz didn't interrupt, and he found if he listened quietly, she'd carry on. Because then she couldn't find a way around her emotions through others.

"Obviously they're very different," she continued, voice soft. "But sometimes... I see Sorren's spark in Sides. That little need to do something brave but by a bit of a dolt... And Icarus, he used to have this way of watching. Of knowing things without saying them. Honestly, he's a bit like Sunstreaker. He was an artist, too." Her small laugh at that died.

So, that's who drew that picture.

And she paused.

Her field shifted then. Not all at once, but like a tide pulling just slightly back.

"I see them in him sometimes," she said again, quieter now. "That's probably why it's so hard to let him go."

Jazz watched her carefully, immediately knowing she was talking about Rowan, as the old Rhea as the piano faded at the end of the song and cheers rang out as she finished her final pose and the video stopped.

She wasn't looking at him nor the screen, but her fingers twisted at the corner of the blanket now, knuckles pale.

He didn't rush her, feeling the weight under the words. The way it hadn't been said before, memories never shared. The way she wasn't quite ready, but she wanted to be.

And if she was being honest, something about the mech beside her made it so easy to be vulnerable.

So, when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above the hum of the laptop fan.

"...What happened to them?"

The question landed gently, with no push, no pressure. Just space and gentle care of telling her he was listening, he was hearing her, and he was there.

Rhea inhaled, slow.

She held it.

Then she let it go.

---

Before war swallowed the world, there were days that felt endless–if you knew where to hide away.

There was a little house tucked into a rolling countryside, weathered white paint and a crooked chimney, nothing special except it was theirs. It was a new place they moved to upon the war taking over cities, but here, it was quiet.

And in the fields beyond the home were scattered wildflowers and the overgrown grass that whistled with the breeze through the thick trees. And just beyond it, a hidden gem, was a lake.

It was framed by willows and cattails, untouched by anyone but the Stiles children. It was the kind of lake that shimmered like glass in the sun, reflecting clouds that drifted slowly, as if they had nowhere else to be.

They used to think it looked like something out of a storybook– and Rhea could almost believe they were safe.

Icarus sat cross-legged in the grass, sketching carefully, tongue poked out in concentration. He was drawing the field: the sky, the sea of flowers, the blurry shape of the lake they sat by. They had been out there all day, as it was much better than being at home. They had swum all day, she made lunch, and now they were relaxing–well, he was. His older sister and twin brother had been roughhousing for the past half-hour.

When Rhea bent over him, ruffling his blond hair, he grunted in protest, shooting her a glare that barely lasted a second before he smiled.

She crouched down beside him, signing casually, 'You're gonna run out of paper if you keep drawing everything you see.'

He smirked, flicking his lead-stained fingers back at her with a quick 'Better than roughhousing like some people.'

Rhea rolled her eyes, laughing. "Art critic now, are we?" she said out loud, knowing he could read her lips.

Icarus just grinned smugly and turned his sketchpad toward her.

It wasn't just the field he was drawing, it was her and Sorren, right in the middle of it.

She recognized the wild sprawl of Sorren's limbs as he tried to tackle her and her own messy braid falling apart behind her as she dodged him.

The little details, the tilt of Sorren's head, the crinkle in Rhea's eyes, were so alive it made her heart ache.

"It's beautiful," she smiled, softer now, tapping the page before signing as she spoke, "You're amazing, y'know that?"

Icarus shrugged like he didn't care, but his ears were burning pink. He ducked his head and sketched faster, pretending she hadn't caught him smiling.

"Bet you can't capture how ugly Sorren's face is when he loses!" Rhea teased aloud, winking at him.

Sorren, who was crouched a few feet away picking flowers (or probably plotting), heard her and shot to his feet.

"Hey!" he shouted, scandalized.

'She's not wrong!' Icarus signed behind her back.

Sorren, in full little brother mode, charged at her, and Rhea let herself be tackled into the tall grass, the two of them rolling and wrestling while Icarus shook his head and kept drawing.

"You're supposed to be the responsible one!" Sorren huffed dramatically, trying and failing to pin her.

"And you're supposed to be faster," Rhea shot back, flipping him easily and pinning him instead.

The boys at the time were about ten, and she was fourteen. And despite the world they lived in, they got to keep some of that innocence that day.

Sorren kicked at the air, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.

Icarus watched them with a faint, fond smile, tapping his pencil against the paper, capturing it all like he knew these moments wouldn't last forever.

The world, for just a heartbeat, was perfect.

Warm and bright and filled with laughter.

But then a low, distant grumble rolled through the ground.

No one else noticed it, but Rhea froze, catching the way a flock of crows burst upward from the trees near the house, black specks against the sky.

Her stomach twisted, having a feeling something wasn't right.

Yet her head told her not to assume the worst. They were safe out here.

Maybe it was just Dad.

They were only here because of his job... Perks that many never got.

She kept her voice light and steady as she crouched beside Icarus and signed as she spoke, "Stay here. Don't cause trouble, got it?"

Icarus rolled his eyes but gave her a lazy thumbs-up.

Sorren gave a noisy salute, "I'm gonna go find some cool bugs!" He was already walking in the opposite direction past the lake.

"Don't go far!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

Nothing was wrong.

Not yet.

Their emotionally absent father was just being stupid again.

Jogging back toward the house, Rhea pushed her unease away.

The country house stood still and silent under the noon sun.

Nothing smoking.

Nothing burning.

And she rolled her eyes to find her father passed out on the couch, multiple beer bottles resting around him and on the floor. Figures.

She was halfway back down the porch steps when the sound hit again... louder, closer... and the ground trembled under her boots.

Her brows furrowed upon realizing it was not from the house.

And that was when she saw it... Smoke curling far beyond the trees. Just barely noticeable at first, but what confirmed it was when the first plane screamed overhead over the horizon.

Panic punched through her chest.

It had reached them.

The fighting was coming their way, and she could hear the thunder of the big, mechanical aliens as they fought closer and closer.

Rhea bolted for the fields, screaming their names, sprinting faster than she thought possible as the smoke grew closer.

How had something so peaceful had been shattered so easily? How had the war come this far?

She had no time for answers...

Because the closer she got, her mind would only focus on the fact that Icarus couldn't hear her.

And Sorren, loud, reckless Sorren, wasn't shouting back.

She crested the hill... and her heart stopped.

The smoke curling up between the trees was soft, almost lazy, against the blue sky. And the single field that had spent their time escaping the horrors of their reality was like the eye of the storm, unknowing of what was coming.

There, not far from the broken line of flowers, sat Icarus in the eye of the storm, his blond head bowed, sketchbook balanced on his knees.

Still drawing, now adding some color.

Still peaceful.

He couldn't hear it.

He was so lost in his work that he hadn't felt the rumble that had shaken her bones. And Sorren was still finding bugs. Where was Sorren?

She'd find him.

She had to get to them.

"SORREN! ICARUS!!" Her voice cracked as it tore through the wind, raw with panic. Her feet slammed down the hill, legs pumping harder than they ever had, arms flailing like she could physically reach them with her desperation alone.

The flowers whipped past her knees, blurred colors smeared by tears she hadn't noticed forming.

"Icarus!!"

Still no reaction, which was unsurprising, but maybe she had hoped at this moment it would reach him. He had never been able to hear before. Something had gone wrong in the womb, leaving Sorren unaffected by Icarus unable to hear the beauty of the world, the world he drew instead.

They had lost their mother in a way they couldn't control, that had left him without sound.

But this she could control if only she could run faster–

But then, from the other end of the field, the treeline exploded

A blur of movement, Sorren, sprinting full-force across the wildgrass, arms pumping, face twisted in a kind of terror Rhea had never seen on him before.

Behind him: metal. Massive. They shimmered in between the trees, hulking limbs, glowing optics of red, shrieking hydraulics.

One Talos and three Decepticons were mid-battle.

One of the Decepticons clipped a tree as it spun to avoid the Talos's strike, its spiked shoulder shredding bark, sending splinters flying. The Talos lunged, energy pulsing in its arms as it fired into the treeline, the crack echoing like thunder that had forgotten where the sky was.

Icarus finally looked up, feeling the shaking.

He still hadn't seen her.

But he saw Sorren now, coming straight toward him, screaming, flailing his arms. The terror rippled through him, traveling all the way to his siblings like someone had plucked the invisible line that tethered them together.

Icarus stood, startled, sketchbook falling from his lap, fluttering uselessly into the tall grass.

Rhea ran, faster, faster, but the distance stretched and stretched, too wide, too cruel.

Icarus didn't hesitate and ran for his brother who ran like his life depended on it–because it did. All that was between them was the lake, a gleaming mirror fractured by tremors as the Earth shook with the weight of something they couldn't control.

"RUN!" Her desperate voice ripped through the field and over the clash of metal and gunfire between the bots.

And they sprinted like hell as she tried to reach them, feeling helpless and Icarus grew further but Sorren grew closer.

The boys reached each other, arms and hands latching as they prepared for what to do next.

They were too close to the lake.

Too close.

But they were trying to figure out in the split second they had latched to one another where they should run. Sorren was about to point out Rhea, his eyes falling on her, but then the Talos struck.

A wild, desperate swing connected with one of the 'Cons, who failed to defend himself. The Con took the blow, his ownblast hitting the ground.

The force lifted the ground, with it, them.

Both boys were thrown from their feet by the shockwave, tossed like paper dolls toward the water.

She saw Sorren's hands reaching midair. Icarus's body turning, twisting, and then they hit the lake. Hard. The surface shattered as she lost sight of them.

"No–no, no, no–"

Rhea dodged pieces of the earth as it flew from a misstep before hitting the water's edge in a sprint, her scream already torn from her throat as she dove headfirst.

The lake was a knife, ever so cold.

Dark and deep and thick with stirred silt. The splash above faded the instant she was under, replaced with the awful, hollow hush of a world without air. Without sound.

And suddenly, they were all in Icarus's world of silence, as the water wrapped around them like a fist.

Her ears rang, pressure building. The world above broke into a thousand rippling shards.

And beneath it–

There they were.

Sorren was twisting, limbs wild in the blur, one arm wrapped around Icarus's chest. His mouth was wide, bubbles rushing out too fast, like he was trying to scream, trying to speak.

Icarus flailed, not violently, but slowly, like he didn't understand... Like his brain was still catching up to the sudden weightlessness and what had just happened. His arms were out, fingers searching the water.

Yet they refused to let go of one another.

Then their eyes met hers.

A flicker of relief bloomed in them, and the three were filled with that dangerous drug called hope.

They thought she was going to reach them, as they fought to get to her the same way she did to get to them.

She always did. Always had.

She refused to fail as she kicked through the silt and cold and ache in her chest, arms clawing forward–and something slammed down between them.

The Decepticon's corpse crashed into the lake like a mountain toppling from the sky.

The impact sent a wave through the water. Rhea's body slammed against a current she couldn't brace for. And then came the metal–massive, twisted, still glowing faintly, tumbling past her like a slow avalanche.

It struck the lakebed, blocking her path.

The boys were on the other side.

She screamed underwater, all air fleeing her lungs in a panic of bubbles.

She reached the metal. Slammed into it. Beat her fists against it, her legs already numb, her hands slipping on the edges.

No way around it.

No way through.

Through the warped gaps in the wreckage, she could see them.

So close.

So horrifyingly close.

Let me through–please, let me through, she pleaded in her mind as if the world could hear her.

She could see as they tried, trying so hard to find an escape from where the bot was around them like a cage. Bubbles streamed from Sorren's nose, his mouth, and his face twisted in pain. Then determination, kicking furiously as she refused to go far to find another route for them, looking around where they were for a space big enough to pull them through.

They didn't let go of one another, even as they realized swimming up wasn't gonna work.

She slammed into the wreckage, clawing.

Icarus was looking at her now, his mouth open and eyes wide.

He still believed she'd reach him.

Sorren was holding him tighter, still trying to kick, still trying to lift, but they were trapped beneath the weight in the little bubble of the water gap.

Panic flared in her veins as she struck the metal again.

Again.

And again.

Her fingers tore on the edges as Icarus's hands moved, slow and trembling, forming a sign she couldn't see clearly in her desperation to get them a way out.

Please.

Stay.

Scared and unknowing of what to do, they turned to their sister desperately looking for a way to get them to her side of the bot, the side where she could swim them up to the surface. Where they weren't trapped.

Icarus's hand suddenly reached out, pressed against the other side of the bot in their way, the bot that had dragged them so far down, blocked their escape. And Sorren followed his lead, leading Rhea to stop looking and to reach out for them in their moment of fear, trapped in silence.

It was like they were touching palm-to-palm through the glass when really the only thing between them was open water through a warped gap in this bot. Their fingertips grazed, arms stretching as they reached for her, only for their little hands to latch onto her arm like a lifeline.

And she could do nothing but tighten her grip around them in silence, unable to say anything while in a water prison that would prevent them from hearing her.

Her desperate eyes scanned their scared faces, the way the water curled their hair, the way they began to blink slowly.

I'm here. I'm here. Stay with me.

And she held them as tight as she could with her hand, not daring to let them go.

It was so quiet.

The world above where the fighting went on could not be heard.

They couldn't hear the whistle of the breeze and the chirp of crickets.

They couldn't even hear each other. No laughter. Not talking. Not sing-song voices.

But Icarus would not know the difference.

Perhaps they had taken the ability to hear one another for granted.

Her lungs were burning now, ignored because her focus was strictly on her little brothers. She kept her eyes locked on them, blinking through the sting of salt and lake and grief.

One last breath. Their tears and her own unable to be seen as water found its way in like poison to their lungs.

And then...

Their hands began to slip, their eyes falling tired like they did when she read them to sleep–the three ignoring their crumbled world and absent father downstairs. Because upstairs, she always made sure they had a nightlight.

Her hand held on tighter, refusing to let go.

Even as they let go of her. Unable to hold on.

And the silent world began to take them away, ripping them from her grip as they slipped into the dark.

Rhea screamed, lungs already empty, leaving muted agony while trapped in silence, her body shuddering, slamming against the wall of metal until her arms gave out. As if the bot's corpse would suddenly move so she could reach them.

She reached even when they stopped reaching back, even as darkness crept around the edge of her eyes.

And she didn't have the fight in her to panic or thrash when the water rocked around her, or when something curled around her body. Not even as the world began to tilt did she react, still reaching for her brothers with tears that could not be seen.

Until everything above her shimmered like glass, and light shattered her body as it broke the surface. With it was Rhea's ragged gasp that wasn't breath, just sound that couldn't hold itself anymore.

But the surface was more quiet than she remembered, just as quiet as drowning. Or perhaps that was just her.

Because they were gone.

She'd watched them go.

She'd watched.

And that was the worst of it, not the drowning. Not the cold.

The watching.

The not-getting-there-in-time.

The way they'd looked at her.

The way they'd believed she'd fix it.

And then–

The hands that had plucked her from her awaiting death, something a part of her clung to it in her utter agony trapped in her throat, in her shattered heart.

The hands of the Talos, the last one standing in a field once peaceful but now dripped in death, both Decepticon and human, set her down on the ground...in the field that smelt of smoke and crushed wildflowers.

And, somehow all that was left untouched, her eyes locked on Icarus's notebook had fallen from his hands, pages fluttering weakly in the breeze like ghost-thin wings.

Her steps were slow and weak at first, stepping in a staggered manner as she got closer and closer before she then fell to her knees, scooping it up like it was the most fragile piece of glass to exist.

She stayed kneeling in the torn cradle of wildflowers, cradling what was left of her brothers, the battered notebook pressed against her chest like a second heartbeat.

I'm here. I'm here. Stay with me.

The Talos, massive and scarred, staggered, then crouched down over her, its great form shielding her from the sky.

She didn't even flinch as it laid itself almost flat against the broken earth, bowing as if to say I'm here. I see you.

Rhea didn't even lift her head because it felt like her world had already ended. She only clutched the notebook tighter, rocking back and forth, her body folded small over the boys who had trusted her to keep them safe.

A soft hiss of hydraulics broke the stillness and a hatch in the Talos's head slid open with a groan.

And from it, small against the bulk of the machine, a girl climbed down. A girl with determined eyes and wind-whipped hair, moving with the kind of caution one uses around wounded animals.

The woman crossed the broken field alone, stepping carefully over twisted metal and crushed flowers, until she reached the wreckage of Rhea's world.

She didn't speak at first.

Didn't pry the notebook from her arms or ask her to let go.

Instead, Nellie sank to her knees across from her, matching her height, matching her stillness, and just waited. A quiet offering. A presence without demand.

The weight of it was more merciful than the silence had been.

And when Rhea finally lifted her shattered gaze, when she saw Nellie for the first time, it wasn't salvation she felt. It wasn't even hope.

It was simply... someone willing to stay even when Rhea could no longer hold herself together. Someone willing to kneel among the crushed flowers and wreckage and say, without words, you don't have to survive this alone.

Rhea had failed to protect the ones who mattered most, but somehow, impossibly, someone had protected her.

Even when she hadn't wanted to be saved.

Even if her heart, broken as it was, never fully let go of what had been lost in that field.

---

Only the soft blue glow of the laptop and the low hush of the playlist looping somewhere on the coffee table filled the room.

Rhea hadn't spoken since she had finished, and her silence lingered.

It clung to the corners of the room like mist, soft, weightless, but full. The kind of quiet that came not from absence, but from a song too long ignored. It wasn't that she didn't want to speak.

She just didn't know how to be heard.

Her hand was still on the edge of the blanket, thumb running the same frayed thread over and over. The kind of motion that wasn't really about doing anything–just... staying tethered.

Jazz stayed right where he was, light against her shoulder, and he didn't plan to.

She'd opened something raw tonight. Not in the way most people cracked, fast and loud and all at once.

No. Rhea unfolded gently and quietly. Like a page no one had dared turn until now.

And he'd listened. Not out of pity. Not even out of duty. But because something in her voice had struck a chord in him so old, so deep, he didn't realize it had been waiting to be played.

The kind of melody you almost forget until you hear it again, and realize it's always been your favorite.

Across her lap, her fingers had stilled. The coloring book rested closed now, forgotten beneath the blanket.

She wasn't crying, not out loud, but her eyes were distant, glassy like water she hadn't stepped out of yet. Not fully.

And the air?

The air held the ghost of something delicate and breaking. Like the small keys of a piano playing in an echoey room.

"I don't reckon you've told anyone that before," he broke the silence gently.

Rhea shook her head.

She hadn't said anything, but she didn't need to. Her field said more than her mouth ever could, low tide pain, pulled just beneath the surface. The ache of having lived so long in everyone else's story, she'd forgotten how to tell her own.

Jazz watched her for a moment longer, the way she blinked too slow, like coming back to herself was a climb.

"She saved you," he said, just to say it out loud. "Nellie."

Rhea gave a small nod.

"I owe her... everything."

He tapped a digit gently on his leg, syncing the rhythm to the quiet music humming under them. It was faint now, some instrumental track playing from a forgotten queue, but it filled the silence with just enough sound to feel like the room was breathing.

Some people held space like an embrace.

Others took it like a throne.

Nellie had carved a place in Rhea's life by pulling her from wreckage, but she'd never stopped pulling. Not even now. Not when Rhea needed a moment to find her own footing. Her own breath.

Her own voice.

Jazz tilted his helm slightly, watching her hands twist in the fabric of the blanket, tightening, loosening, over and over. Not from fear but from the weight of trying to hold too much.

"She means well," Rhea murmured. "But..."

Her brow creased, and that one word–but–carried every unspoken thing she hadn't let herself name.

Jazz vented slowly, voice low, careful. "Meanin' well don't always mean listenin' well."

She blinked and looked at him sideways. He didn't press the point, but it hung between them like smoke from a long-burned fire.

"She listens," Rhea tried, love clinging through the smoke. "She just..." And her words fell short.

And that was the thing, wasn't it?

Nellie heard the scream, the panic, the urgency.

But Jazz...

Jazz heard the melody.

The one Rhea didn't even know she was still humming. The one tucked behind every smile, every sharp-witted joke, every long-held breath she forgot to let go of.

He wasn't here to fix her or drag her out.

He was just here.

Quietly.

Entirely.

For her.

It was baffling how nobody seemed to be. Not when Rhea was such a pure song to listen to.

Rhea's eyes drifted toward the blank screen again, toward the last frame of that old video. Her younger self frozen mid-pose, arms lifted, smile like light. Behind her, the muffled cheers of her brothers still echoed somewhere inside.

And Jazz could almost feel the moment it all snapped into place for her.

"I couldn't save them," she whispered, and this time her voice didn't crack, but it could have.

Jazz's field flickered gently against hers. Not pushing in, just brushing as if she could communicate the same way he could. But maybe a part of him hoped instinctually she'd feel the way he assured her, I'm still here.

"I think that's why I'm so scared of letting Rowan go."

Her voice sounded like a piano underwater.

Quiet. Warped. And still beautiful.

"I see them in him. I see their light."

And that was it, wasn't it?

She wasn't trying to control Rowan. She was just trying to protect him with the kind of love that had once failed. Not because it wasn't strong enough, but because she'd been too small to stop the world from breaking.

She wasn't trying to keep him trapped. She was trying to keep him breathing.

Jazz sat with it for a long moment. Then said, quietly, "Ain't nothin' wrong with wantin' him safe."

Her field twitched, something small and raw in it."But don't tear yourself up tryin' to rewrite the past," he added softly. "You ain't failed him. And if someone's makin' you feel like you have... maybe they ain't really hearin' you."

She looked at him then.

And for the first time, Jazz saw it.

That slight, stunned glimmer behind her eyes that someone had said it aloud. That someone had seen her.

She would protect Rowan, any of these kids, if it tore her in half. And no one had noticed.

No one but him.

He felt it down to his spark. The way she gave pieces of herself away like patchwork, never asking anything in return. The way she let her own heart drown if it meant someone else could breathe.

And still, she always smiled. Still, she showed up.

And Jazz, for the first time in a long, long while, wanted to be the one to stay beside her.

To hear the song Nellie always talked over.

To trace the edges of every note Rhea was too scared to play too loud.

To be the one who didn't pull her out of the water... but simply reached in and held her hand, and waited, never letting go.

"You don't owe anybody what's left of you," he murmured gently as his accent disappeared in his seriousness, his servo finding the side of her face that was in perfect reach of him while upon her shoulder. The warmth she'd assumed metal wasn't capable of was what kept her steady as he held her cheek to ensure she was listening to his next words. "Not even the ones who saved you."

And the look she gave him, staring into his visor with glossy eyes he willed not to cry...

It wasn't surprised; it was grateful.

Like maybe she hadn't expected anyone to say it, but she'd hoped, just once, someone would. A wish lost in her core while holding everyone afloat with her own body.

"And you shouldn't have to carry everything alone." He finished like it was a promise.

And Jazz didn't say anything else after that. He didn't need to.

Because Rhea's melody? It wasn't lost. It was right here, in that silence, her melody playing on.

Still playing.

And he was listening to a song only he could tune into like it was the only song that ever mattered as the tangled, red, invisible string tethering them–scorched where threads had been burned together, leaving forgotten pieces on the floor–tugged closer. 

Notes:

I meant to upload this two days ago, but my life literally took a full 180 sooo BUT WE ARE HERE NOW YAYYY

Can you believe we're only a few chapters away from the next arc? dun dun dunnn

if you can't tell, her brothers are this reality’s version of sunstreaker and sideswipe... hence their original dislike for each other. #rheafeelinglikeafaliuretooomanymemories

Chapter 13: When the Sun Falls

Summary:

"Always a dance with you, huh?"

Today was like any other day. The whole house had kind of fallen into a day-to-day routine with the occasional–who was she kidding–frequent mishap.

Rhea moved through it like it was any other evening. She passed Thundercracker in the hallway, offering a slight nod as he mumbled something about too many damn wires (he had just been helping with the ground bridge project.) Trailing behind was Soundwave, who didn’t acknowledge her but subtly adjusted his stride so she didn’t step on him and she didn’t have to interact. He wasn’t a talker, obviously.

Just normal things.

The living room glowed in that uncomfortably sterile blue, the hum of the ground-bridge core filling the silence with something almost like music, if music made your teeth itch. It stretched like a wound where the space behind the couch used to be, except now the metal frame stood there much bigger given their new growth. It was like a doorway that went to nowhere, cables fed out from it like veins, and honestly, she was worried about when it turned on…

Wheeljack assured her that it was much smaller than a ground bridgewas supposed to be and would only knock out the power across the base for a short period of time… Had it been made for their actual size, and thank god they weren’t that big yet, it would’ve caused a surge throughout the continent.

To say she was worried was an understatement, but the surge issue would be a problem with her own government to handle later (and hopefully not trace back to her.) But at least there wouldn’t be bots to find in her apartment, which was why they weren’t allowed to turn it on until they were ready to go…

Ready to go… right…

She shook her head, distracted by noticing Wheeljack standing off to the side, scrawling on a datapad and muttering to himself. He had gone through the growth-spurt, towering, big-smiled, goggles lit, frame always a bit crooked like he was mid-explosion.

“All good?” she asked as she approached what others have been calling “Jackie’s Deathtrap.”

“Nearly!” he beamed, fins flashing at her. “Ran another virtual sim. Stabilized at 94.7%. Just one more to crack 95 and we’re golden!”

“Which means you’ll run twelve more to make sure,” Ratchet called back dryly as he walked back upstairs after finishing his coffee ration, one of the few that had not changed yet.

She was running out of coffee now that they needed more with being bigger…

“‘Course I will!”

Rhea offered Wheeljack a small smile as she passed. “You’re amazing. Seriously.”

He beamed, his fins flashing a pink color and offered a nod of gratitude at the compliment, which he received rarely for his work that tended to blow up. “You’ll be rid of us in no time!”

Her smile didn’t falter, but something in her shoulders tensed.

“Lucky me,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone.

On top of worrying about Rowan who has been disappearing for training, not quite talking to her other than a few words here and there in tension, now she’s losing the bots, too. It was kind of hard to feel happy that they were going to go back home, but she didn’t dare let them know she felt that way. They deserved to go home.

She continued forward until she found Madoc and Astryd at the dining table, soft overhead light turning their features warm and worn. Astryd was just sitting down after helping put the little ones to bed and with dinner, and Madoc had his feet up, balancing a spoon on his nose like it was a job. They’d shown up earlier under the excuse of checking in and dropping off dessert, but she knew better.

They were worried.

She’d laughed it off at dinner. Told them everything was fine.

They didn’t believe her, of course. Asytrd made sure the kids did their routines for her, Madoc made sure everything was clean after dinner.

No one had let Rhea lift a finger, which had bothered her, but she was so tired that she didn’t have the fight in her to argue much.

She sat down in a chair at the table, leaning her head on her hand as she took note of the Autobots who were scattered about nearby, Ironhide and Chromia fixing one of the cabinet hinges in the kitchen for Wheeljack (a pit in her stomach ever-growing at the fact they were planning to leave the place better than they found it), Prowl quietly reading something on his data pad in the corner, and Optimus stood on top of the table, contemplative as ever as he engaged in polite conversation. Rhea was just grateful he hadn’t grown yet or Grimlock.

Jazz was perched on the counter, legs swinging, watching her without watching her–also quite disappointed he seemed to be one of the last going through the change.

In noting this in her head, she hadn’t even realized her eyes began to flutter tiredly until she heard, “We got ourselves a nodderrrrr~”

It was one of those moments when you don't even realize you had fallen asleep until you were snapping your head up, where she noticed Sideswipe climbing up the table and smirking at her.

She blinked a few times, the words taking a second to register, before asking knowingly, “Jaxon showed you the movie Cars?”

“Y’know it, babe. He was excited to show us.”

She chuckled knowingly.

It was then that Madoc leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “So, this a bad time to redirect the conversation back to how you should tell us how you’re really doing, or are we pretending the elephant in the room is on vacation?”

“Madoc.” Astryd shot him a warning glance.

“What? It’s a big elephant. Bad time I’m assuming?”

“I’m fine,” Rhea retorted quickly, tiredly, rubbing her eyes hard enough that black splotches appeared behind her lids. “Seriously. Just tired. Kids’ve been a lot recently, and with Wheeljack finishing the bridge and all, it’s just been…”

“Loud?” Madoc offered.

“Quiet,” she corrected. “Weirdly quiet. Even when it’s not. Does that make sense?”

Astryd softened. “It makes perfect sense.”

There was a pause where no one spoke, and she took just a brief moment of preparation before addressing this so-called ‘elephant-in-the-room.’

“I haven’t talked to Nellie.” The admission came like a leak in a dam, soft but pressurized. “And Rowan barely looks at me lately. I think… I think he’s trying to decide how mad he should be. Or if I’m the enemy now too.”

Nobody said anything right away, but when someone had, it was Madoc.

“Good riddance.” 

He was whacked.

“What?! I meant Nellie, not Rowan. She’s a bit of a bee-otch.” His voice went up on octave on the nickname.

Then Optimus's voice cut in, low and deliberate. Bring it back seriously

“You care deeply,” he stated, his voice steady and warm. It always was when addressing one of the younglings, including Rhea. “That’s never been in question.”

Rhea didn’t look at him, but her hands hadn’t stopped finding something to do.

“But there will be times,” he went on, “when no amount of care will change someone’s choice. When love can’t prevent hurt, or confusion, or even distance. And that is their choice to make.”

He paused, just long enough for his words to feel deliberate.

“You’ve done what you could, more than most, but control and care are not the same. And not being able to fix everything does not mean you’ve failed. I may not know much about being human, but, from what I've learned, I believe we both can relate to the phrase ‘It means you are human’.”

The kitchen was silent. Astryd gave her a gentle look while Madoc looked mildly uncomfortable at the sudden seriousness, as if the floor might open up and spare him from emotional depth.

Jazz, from his place leaning on the counter, didn’t shift or speak, but his optics were on Rhea, watching. He had little input here, but that was on purpose. He was careful and deliberate about Rhea and what he said to her.

The reason for it?

Her reply to Optimus served as enough proof that she was damn good at that practiced, polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you,” she said simply. “That means a lot.”

And that was it.

She moved on.

Jazz didn’t flinch or frown, as he had expected it.

Still, he tilted his helm just slightly as she turned away, like he was quietly filing it away, not to press, not yet, but just to know.

There was a way of reaching her, sending messages she didn’t want to hear or refusing to see in a light that didn’t dim her own, and leave it to the saboteur to crack it.

So the light conversation continued on without much input from Rhea or Jazz. They watched the Autobots and the two humans interact quietly for about ten minutes.

In that time, she had nodded off once more against her hand, absolutely exhausted from carrying the weight of everything on her shoulders, and her shoulders alone–not that she would ever admit it.

The bots had been paying attention to the mysterious human femme known as Rhea Stiles quietly and deeply since they had arrived. Months had gone by, and not once had she faltered in making sure everyone was loved and cared for. And they were all but certain she had been doing so for a lot longer than when they had come around.

She was a bit of a mystery when it came to the reason why she did things or why she turned the conversation so subtly in a different direction you’d never realize until it was over.

But Jazz had been slowly getting peeks at these pages, only to discover worn pages tapes together to keep themselves from falling apart.

She was like a book at the end of the line, used to hold the others upright.

Jazz couldn’t quite figure out why. Not when she was slowly becoming his favorite book to read, and he was quite good at reading others. No matter the language barriers or if it was encrypted. That had never stopped him before.

But he was failing to recognize that there were some barriers you could just not overcome, one he had not considered.

In not considering this, he made his way over to her, his field brushing her own before his digits ever gently tapped her own

Rhea jerked away despite his gentle way of waking her up as the conversation went on. She blinked quickly, seeming to register him and the fact she had fallen asleep, though couldn’t remember when.

He didn’t tell her this, instead nodding his helm toward the stairs with a soft look.

She yawned and nodded, standing up sleepily.

“I’ll walk ya,” Jazz said easily, though she would be the one walking them.

That pulled the tiniest laugh from her as she helped up to her shoulder and waved goodnight to the others, the rest of the room let her go. But Jazz stayed close, as he intended.

The hall was dim, the kind of soft gold that made everything feel sleepier than it was, which hadn’t helped her case. Rhea walked with her shoulders relaxed but her hands tucked in her sleeves, letting her fingers fidget where no one could see.

Jazz held onto the fabric of her clothing, holding tight as the hum of the ground bridge in the living room pulsed faintly behind them during its tests. From here, it almost sounded like a heartbeat, steady and distant.

She made a point to check through the cracked door of the twin’s room to see a sleeping Calix and recharging Bluestreak cuddled up as usual.

Meanwhile, Bumblebee was sprawled on Cora’s bed, the girl sleeping blissfully on top of him. She had preferred it that way, as much as Bee told her he wasn’t going anywhere if he just sat on the floor… The mech in question had waved at Rhea quietly, Rhea smiling softly and mouthing goodnight before going on her way.

Her room door was already half-open, light from the lamp on her desk washing the walls in a warm gold.

Rhea stepped in without hesitation, both taking note of Ratchet at his usual on her desk. The angle of his helm said he noticed them.

Rhea gently set Jazz on her bed, joking, “You’ve officially ‘walked’ me to bed. Thanks.”

“Anytime, darlin’.” He smiled as she climbed further into the bed, not even caring to change into pajamas, and deemedher shirt and loose shorts okay enough for sleep. She crawled halfway beneath the blanket and curled her elbow under her head as a pillow. She looked tired, but not the kind of tired sleep fixes–well, maybe a little when it came to her.

For a moment, nothing moved except the slow flicker of light creeping in from the hallway and the shuffle of Ratchet.

Jazz reached out toward her items sitting at the end of the bed and flicked on her speaker, playing with the stuff he had learned how to use hers a few weeks ago after that night in the living room.

The music that came through was soft and old, and he glanced at her to see the small, knowing smile reach her lips.

It was quiet in that way where the air felt thick with something. Not tension or sadness, just… a kind of stillness you don’t question until it’s already gone.

Ratchet didn’t look up but shook his helm when music began to play. “She needs sleep.”

“I got it, Ratch,” Jazz waved him off, grin audible in his tone.

Rhea softly chuckled.

Her eyes were heavy but open, like she didn’t want to miss anything, even in this stillness.

Jazz’s steps on her bed were small, but he was sure she could feel him making his way toward her before he eventually flopped into the opposite space where she was lying.

He copied her position, helm resting on his curled-in elbow as he faced her.

Rhea sleepily narrowed her eyes at him as the music played on in the back. “What? You here to make sure I go to bed? Because I believe I have Ratchet on that duty.” The medic in question scoffed.

He shrugged a little awkwardly with the way he was lying. “Thought I’d stay ‘til you knocked out. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Jazz didn’t answer.

But the song shifted, and his optics flicked toward the speaker, then back to her optics. Optics he couldn’t help but memorize, save the shade of blue and commit it to memory.

And he hadn’t realized she was staring at his visor, catching her reflection yet wondering what color might lie beneath. One of Jazz’s many secrets she was determined to get ahold of if not for any reason but knowing for herself.

It was like a string, that same string scorched together like two pieces not meant to be together but had their threads burned where they were cut, was strung tight between their gaze. Something that had been there for months now. Maybe longer.

Longer than they realized.

The music looped again. A voice that barely rose above a murmur.

Nothing else moved… Not even time.

They didn’t say goodnight because that would’ve made it a moment. It would’ve drawn the night to a close, and neither seemed ready to let it go so easily.

Surely they’d have tomorrow. So why worry?

But he could see she was exhausted, and as much as he wanted the night to go on, she needed to sleep the rest of it away. He could tell.

Jazz hadn’t had a chance to comment on it before her voice in a soft whisper asked him, “Where were you?”

He didn’t openly show his brief confusion, but hummed so she might elaborate, “Hm?”

“You told me that you weren’t in Jasper. I know it’s classified and all, but you guys are leaving anyway, right? So, can I know?”

Ah, so that’s what this was about.

He’d been thinking about their upcoming departure more often than not, but it had been the focus of most of their Autobot meetings–what they were going to do with the humans they’d come to live alongside. Leaving wouldn’t be easy for anyone. There was a bond there. And yet, everyone, human and bot alike, seemed far too familiar with the idea of letting go, even when it hurt. Even when it wasn’t what they wanted.

But they didn’t want to leave them in harm’s way either.

And Jazz? Jazz brought up Rhea in those meetings more than once. Probably just about every meeting concerning the situation. Ratchet, to his surprise, was the first to back him up.

They were all worried about what would happen when they left.

It was hard not to feel the weight of responsibility in a world where Decepticons had won, even if it was their alternate selves that had failed.

“I wasn’t in Jasper,” he confirmed, having no issue in trusting her with this. “Wasn’t even on the mainland. I was stationed in the Faroe Islands. Which is in Earth’s north Atlantic, out past Iceland.”

She blinked curiously. “Doing what?”

“Special ops mission,” he reminded with a faint tilt of his helm further into her bed. “Diggin’ up intel on hidden energon mines. Tracking Decepticon supply routes. Our energon supply was running dry.”

Her brows lifted. “That far out, though?”

“Mm.” His optics softened a little behind his visor. “When you’re assigned to spec ops, you usually don’t get called in for other missions. Secrecy’s everything in espionage. Can’t risk exposure. You work alone most of the time. Send updates in coded bursts, never real-time or traceable. Much like Earth’s telegraph for morse.”

“That’s… kinda awesome,” she said, voice low.

Jazz chuckled. “You wanna learn, I’ll teach ya.”

“You think I could be a saboteur?”

“‘Course.” Jazz smirked, his tone easy. “With the right trainin’? Sure. And you’ve already got the best teacher and the stubborn streak.”

Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Is that a requirement?”

“Mandatory,” he retorted, grin tugging wider. “Makes ya harder to break.”

“Guess I’m halfway there.”

Jazz watched her a beat longer, his voice dropping gently. “Yeah. I reckon you are.”

She smiled at that, brushing her fingers beneath her cheek where it rested against the pillow.

“But if you were all the way out there,” she asked after a beat, “how’d you end up here?”

Jazz paused, considering.

It was a valid question, only those near the bridge were affected by the anomalous event. And his optics flicked briefly toward the corner of the room where Ratchet was busying himself–but he had noticed from the moment they spoke that he had been listening.

Rhea hadn’t noticed.

Jazz didn’t mind. It was Ratchet, after all.

“They needed backup,” he said simply. “They were outnumbered, hit hard. Called in everyone they could. So much so that those on another mission came rushing back by alt rather than ground-bridge because it was in use. Arcee was left to man the ground-bridge because Ratchet was needed and I was sent a ping, even if she wasn’t supposed to. They needed all the servos they could get.”

“And you went.”

He nodded without hesitation.

“There was a ground bridge ready on our end. Decepticons were firing one up on theirs too, at the exact same moment. Apparently this has happened before and it caused some weird things, but nothing like this.”

Rhea stilled.

“Something went wrong. Real wrong. Not just an explosion, exactly, but… an anomaly with it. Jackie could explain it better. All I know is, here we are..”

She was quiet after that, brows drawn together. He could feel the shift in her, like tension rolling inward, thoughts stacking heavy again.

It wasn’t just worry, but the weight of knowing that the war she was in was the same back in their world, though it had its differences. She wouldn’t wish a life of war on anyone, and they had both been fighting in it for such a long time–Jazz much longer, but more so equaling their lifespans as different as they might be.

Jazz felt the change in her field, that weight of thought curling in on itself on top of her exhaustion.

He hated that feeling on her.

“That must’ve been lonely.”

Jazz inwardly faltered.

He hadn’t expected her to say that, his first thoughts running to the idea of war and things alike–which was a part of it.

But leave it to Rhea to worry about him. Worried about how he might feel and empathizing that he was usually not on base, he was often alone on these lesser special ops missions. Mirage and his other team still hadn’t arrived on Earth, and you needed specific training in order to go. It had been just him for a while, sometimes getting help if their specialty was needed. Bluestreak being a sharp shooter was always great to have…

Feeling lonely, though?

Perhaps… sometimes? He always busied himself enough to not have to worry about it much. He supposed that maybe it would be a bit different if he had something to genuinely miss.

This unknown possibility clearly bothered her, and Jazz couldn’t help but make the connection that she was picturing herself in his place. Wondering how it would feel. Wondering if he’d felt it too. That ache she knew too well–the one of being surrounded by silence and feeling like maybe no one was on the other end of it.

That she would be lonely.

Or, rather, she feared the idea of being alone. It was two very different because only one left the absence of hope. One left you in a silence that would never go away.

Rhea did not like silence, he realized. And he knew why.

So he shifted slightly on the bed, his helm still propped in one servo, and started talking again, slow and easy, like he was painting the words out in soft brushstrokes in comfort.

“Nah,” he said at last, slow and thoughtful. “I get why you’d think that. I s’pose… maybe it coulda been.”

Her eyes stayed on him, soft and searching.

“But out there…” he began again, letting the memory settle on his glossa, “it don’t feel like you’re alone.”

“Those islands… they don’t got noise, not like Earth’s cities do. It’s not empty, though. It’s full of sound, just quieter ones, like the kinda sound that makes you feel like the world’s talkin’, just not in a way people usually hear.”

He smiled faintly to himself at the way her field minutely relaxed, “The wind rolls through like it knows your designation. The huge cliffs hum when the waves hit right. Grass bends like it’s leanin’ in to listen. And the fog, it don’t close in on you. It wraps around you like a blanket and makes you feel like you belong to the land, just for a while.”

Rhea’s breath had deepened, but she was still listening so intently, her hand now slack at her side.

Jazz’s voice dipped lower, slower. “Sometimes I’d sit out there and feel like… I was back on Cybertron. It’s a beautiful place, but Earth’s got colors that would make the crystal gardens pale in comparison, especially at sunset.”

Her shoulders had finally relaxed, her eyes blinking slower now, caught between thought and sleep. “It sounds beautiful.”

Jazz watched her for a moment longer, his smile softening with it. “It was. Y’know… I’d go to the west side of the island every sunset. There’s this ridge that juts out past the cliffs,” he continued, voice low and almost reverent, like he was sharing something secret. “Takes a bit of climbin’ to get up there, even for a Cybertronian, but once you do, you’re higher than anythin’ else. The wind up there’s strong enough to lean on, not even a tree. Just the stone beneath your pedes and the sky openin’ wide in front of you.”

He glanced toward the ceiling, optics soft with the memory. “The sun sets slow on that side. Real slow. Like it don’t wanna leave just yet, and the whole ocean turns gold for a few minutes.”

He smiled faintly at the way she seemed to be picturing it with a longing look. It must’ve been hard to live without a sky for all these years. “Sometimes I’d stay through the whole thing just to see the stars come in behind it. You could see every constellation out there.”

But still, she didn’t close her eyes throughout the story. Just laid there, watching him through half-lowered lashes, her breath slow but stubbornly alert, like even rest felt like something she needed to earn. Like the stillness couldn’t quite be trusted without someone watching it back.

Jazz saw it in the way her fingers barely twitched near the hem of the blanket, and in the tension she carried even while reclined. Tired didn’t always look like slumped shoulders and yawns. Sometimes it looked like someone trying too hard to stay awake so they wouldn’t have to be alone in the silence.

He shifted slightly where he lay across from her, helm propped on one arm. His gaze traced the faint golden light that spilled across her cheek from the lamp on the desk. It softened everything. Made the bruises under her eyes look less like exhaustion and more like moonlight shadows.

“Ain’t ya tired?” he whispered.

Rhea blinked, sluggish but pretended not to be as she whispered in return, “What? No…”

Ratchet could hear them despite their whispers, he just pretended not to.

“I dunno how Ratch does it. Tryna get you to do anything for your health seems like it’s always a little spin, a sidestep,” he jokes, poking lightly at the fact she was awfully stubborn when it came to matters of her own.

She cracked the smallest grin, nose wrinkling. “And yet you keep showing up for the music. Seems we’re both distracted.”

“I don’t mind the rhythm,” he murmured. “But you’re tired, Rhea.”

Her eyes fluttered halfway shut before snapping back open. “I’m not…”

“You are,” He smirked slightly at the way she fought it off in a desperate attempt to prove him wrong. Which he was not.

“I just…”

When she didn’t close her eyes, Jazz let his voice drift softer, just above the hum of the speaker. “Always a dance with you, huh?”

She didn’t have anything to say to that other than a soft smile, signaling he wasn’t going to outdance her at this.

Jazz let out a soft vent that tugged something deep in his chassis. He just looked at her for a long moment and nodded once, because he understood why she fought it away so hard.

Because to let go of such a good day, would be to hope tomorrow would be the same. Why not remain awake on a knowingly good day even as it comes to a close?

Because who knows what could happen tomorrow?

As scary as it might be, though… Tomorrow is going to come as sure as the sun will rise.

So Jazz just let the silence stretch, not heavy, not forced. The song that had been looping from her speaker shifted into something older that she liked, the kind of melody that sank into a room instead of dancing through it.

He adjusted the way he lay, pulling in closer without touching. His optics softened as he listened to the tune winding through the dim light. And after a moment, he began to hum.

It wasn’t loud, but just a low, uneven sound that slipped into the music like he was letting it borrow his voice for a while.

Rhea’s breathing didn’t change right away, but eventually, her shoulders stopped fidgeting. Her hand shifted slightly toward the middle of the bed, closer to where he lay, fingers relaxed now, not curled or braced.

And with a glance, he watched as her chest rose and fell with a rhythm that no longer fought against stillness.

Jazz kept humming a little longer, just in case she wasn’t really asleep yet, just in case she was listening.

When the track faded into quiet again, he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Seemed she had been outdanced this time.

Across the room, Ratchet glanced up from where he’d been quietly keeping watch. Their optics met–Jazz’s steady, Ratchet’s unreadable, but no one said anything. Not even the music.

It simply looped on, soft as breath, and beside him, Rhea finally slept and Jazz began to wonder how he might teach her that no matter how dark, no matter how scared, all you can do is find beauty in sunsets or one might get lost in the dark.

---

She remembered the first time she walked through the door.

Not this door, not as it was now, with the scribbles from a mishap involving crayons drawn at the bottom of her bedroom door when she had turned away from a much younger Jaxon, but way back then. When the house had different walls, andsomeone else’s name was responsible for running this group home of kids with no one to look out for them anymore. When she was fourteen and hollowed out, shoulders hunched like she’d learned not to expect the ground to hold her.

The woman, who ran the house much differently than Rhea currently did, had led her inside with a practiced kind of kindness. Said things like “we’re happy to have you here” and “you’ll be safe now.” Said it gently, like she was trying not to spook her.

She had just lost her brothers after all, been in this hugely talked about accident and moved to the main base rather than a hideout (those were no longer safe). Everyone on base had heard of the girl whose dad did not want to care for her, which seemed so bizarre when parents and kids unwillingly lost their loved ones every day. He’d rather work. He’d rather not be reminded. He’d rather leave them both alone.

She paused in the hallway, hand on the frame of the room she’d be staying in.

“I’ll let you get settled in,” the woman said, offering a small smile to the recently orphaned child. “Then we can meet the other kids. How does that sound?”

Rhea didn’t answer. Just stared past her into the empty room.

The woman left without waiting and the door clicked softly shut.

And all Rhea wanted to do was sit down on the floor.

There was nothing in the room. No rug. No bedding. The walls were bare.

It was… so different than it was now.

She pulled her pale blue, worn backpack into her lap and unzipped it slowly, fingers numb. Pulled out a familiar item: the music box.

Her thumbs traced the edge of the lid, and she opened it.

The dancer inside was chipped at the shoulder, but still turned when the music began–soft, tinny, a waltz she had no name for, only memory.

She watched it spin. The music fell short to her ears and hearing nothing but the burdened silence.

And when her throat tightened, she didn’t stop it.

She let her eyes burn, let the heat rise, let it fall until her shoulders curled in and the tears spilled silently down her face. It was so quiet.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. She felt like she was underwater all over again.

Rhea nearly slammed the box shut, wanting to shut out the world away and all the memories she had.

She almost succeeded, fingers twitching toward it like a reflex, at least, until the door creaked.

The whisper of tiny footsteps across wood pulled her attention and she dragged her sleeve across her face too quickly before looking their way. She had assumed it was the woman returning, and she didn’t want to hear some pathetic sympathy for crying. She had enough of that.

So, Rhea had been taken aback to see a little boy who barely could reach the doorknob but was smart enough to somehow open it.

He couldn’t have been older than four. So little and soft at the edges. His dirty blonde curls stuck up like feathers and his shirt was askew, collar turned inside out. His bare feet explained the pitter-patter.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking at her with the kind of wide-eyed quiet only very small children and very old souls ever seemed to carry.

Then, without a word, he walked in. More of a wobble, really, half-balance, half-instinct. He toddled in like gravity pulled him toward her.

He tripped slightly over his own foot, stumbled, and caught himself by resting a hand against her knee.

And then he simply… plopped down next to her.

She watched with curiosity with her still bloodshot eyes as he sat himself down on the floor like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she had called him there without saying a thing.

But her breath hitches when his arms, tiny and uncertain, wrapped around her middle.

Rhea didn’t breathe, not for a second. Not while the music box kept playing its soft, circular tune in her hand and her other hovered in the air, unsure of what to do at the unexpected turn of events. Not while this child–who she didn’t even know, whose name she hadn't heard–curled into her like he’d done it a thousand times.

She looked down at him, blinking through the tears still clinging to her lashes.

And for the first time in what felt like years, so did she.

Because Rowan had become someone she’d share more hugs with than she could count for years to come.

---

Rhea stirred at the sound of someone calling her name. They were soft and firm at first, but she could begin to make out multiple voices layered and overlapping in the back like a bad dream.

She blinked slowly, still tangled in the haze of sleep and the warmth of her bed. Her fingers stretched out, brushing empty sheets beside her instinctively.

Jazz was gone.

That realization made her sit up straighter, and that's when she saw them.

Elita, Optimus, Prowl, Chromia, Ironhide… all standing in her room, their faces grim. Ratchet hovered by on top of the desk, his optic ridge furrowed tight with worry.

“Rhea,” Elita started gently, her tone measured but urgent, which only made her that much more worried.

“Rowan is gone,” Prowl informed her quickly, his processors telling him it was only logical to inform her promptly. Though, the others glared at his lack of ease in such news.

Rhea shot up, the blanket sliding off her like it had been holding her down. They didn’t need to explain. Her gut had already made the connection.

She was already moving, swinging her legs off the bed, throwing the blanket to the side. Her hands were quick, yanking her pajama top off and tossing it to the floor, revealing a black sports bra underneath as she stomped over to the chest near her closet.

“Where are you going?” Elita asked, voice rising just slightly.

“Rhea,” Prowl started, trying to keep it calm, “an alert was triggered from his bedside tag fifteen minutes ago. The feed was wiped before we could review it. He rushed out the door without informing us of his destination.”

She didn’t respond, just tugged on the tight black compression body suit she never intended to use beyond the training and screening she had gone through, sleeves sliding up her arms as she muttered under her breath, “They’re not supposed to call younger pilots at night. It’s not protocol unless we’re under attack.”

She reached for her camo tactical pants and stepped into them quickly. “Call Astryd and Madoc. They’ll handle the kids if I’m not back before they wake up.”A glance at the alarm clock told her it was only 3:11 in the morning.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Ratchet barked, “you’re not going.”

She glanced at Ratchet but said nothing, walking right out of the room and past the bigger bots and over the small ones.

From behind her, she could hear Ratchet yammering at Optimus, telling him to do something, but she was in too much of a hurry to listen.

Downstairs, Rhea pulled on her boots at the front door, kneeling to tie the laces tight. A crowd had formed–Wheeljack, Thundercracker, Skywarp, even Knockout, all standing with unreadable expressions. Both Decepticons and Autobots were present, tension thrumming through the air like a wire pulled taut.

They were all trying to reason with her, telling her to stay, but she wasn’t listening.

The only ones who didn’t seem to have much to say, strangely, were the twins.

Sideswipe leaned on the wall with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Sunstreaker was beside him, similarly silent.

Then Ratchet came storming back into the room with Optimus, Prowl, and a very serious Jazz hot on his heels.

“She’s a five-foot human. You’re telling me you can’t stop her?”

“No offense, doc,” Wheeljack glanced his way from where he stood beside Rhea, “but you try stopping her.”

Ratchet huffed, optics wild. “Why is everyone treating this like she’s invincible?! She’s not! She’s just a–”

“I said call Astryd!” Rhea snapped, eyes flashing for the first time. Her fingers fumbled with her zipper, pulling her jacket tight and adjusting the collar.

Then Chromia stepped in front of the door with a firm, “No.”

Rhea’s face didn’t change and her voice didn’t raise, but it was solid, immovable, like a glacier beneath warm tides.

“Move.”

Chromia stood her ground for only a second longer than necessary, but long enough to create tension. The femme was scarier than most, and neither dropped their resolve to win this stand-off. Enough that Ratchet thought maybe, maybe, this would be the end of it.

Then Optimus raised a servo. “If she’s going,” he said, trying to compromise, “she’s not going alone.”

“There’s no way she can walk around with one of you full-sized,” Ratchet bit back, voice low now.

“Then she brings one of us who hasn’t changed yet.”

Rhea looked between them all, jaw clenched with worry and tension.

She didn’t have time for this.

“Fine–”

She didn’t even finish the word before a voice called sharply from beside the group of officers, “I’m going.”

Jazz.

His tone left no room for argument. He was already moving forward, slipping into her reach, his small frame already prepared.

She didn’t say anything, just unzipped her jacket halfway and lifted him up. She let him slip into the fold of her jacket, his weight warm against her chest as she zipped it back up loosely, shielding him from view.

She reached for the door, opening it, before looking back at the room full of Autobots–all of which had gathered upon the news and all the ruckus.

“Watch the kids,” Rhea asked with a much gentler tone, even after the disagreement. “Please.”

Then she was gone, with Jazz–the first bot to ever see beyond the doors of the house.

At first, it was dark inside the fold of her jacket with only the swaying slightly with every determined step she took. Jazz kept his vents low and steady, pressed flat against her side, small servo hooked into the fabric lining just enough to stabilize himself.

He could feel the way her heart was racing.

Even though her steps were silent, practiced, there was tension in her body that vibrated beneath his plating–every breath a quiet standoff between panic and discipline. She wasn’t afraid. No, not like that. But she was preparing to break something if it got in her way.

Through the crack in the zipper, Jazz caught flickers of light as she entered a vast, high-ceilinged chamber that the cement hallway of the living quarters she resided in opened up to, which was bigger than he expected.

People moved through what seemed to be a center plaza, hundreds of them. Some in uniform. Others in mismatched clothes that marked them as civilians.

There was the hum of generators underfoot, the clatter of boots on catwalks, the strange stillness of hundreds of people coexisting underground. Cramped, but clean and built with survival in mind. Steel beams lined the walls like bones, and walkways crossed above their heads like a ribcage.

It was… lively considering the circumstances.

People were everywhere, moving in semi-orderly lines, reading terminals,going about their lives like nothing was wrong.

His optics narrowed as they walked on, scanning the plastered posters. Large and bright, the kind you couldn’t look away from.

“TOGETHER, WE STAND TALL.”

Beneath the words, a Talos mech stood in dramatic silhouette next to an Autobot–Optimus Prime, stylized and softened with bright blue optics. The two of them held matching stances, shoulder to shoulder, fists raised.

Like they were equals. Like they were one.

Another poster beside it:

“THEIR WAR IS OUR FUTURE.”

In it, a smiling child handed a flower to a Talos pilot. An Autobot symbol gleamed faintly on the mech’s armor. Jazz had to squint.

Except… it wasn’t an Autobot insignia.

Not exactly.

The Talos emblem, almost identical to their own, was distorted with much sharper angles and a cracked crest. Likesomeone had taken the Autobot symbol, sanded it into a weapon, and called it their own. Like a ghost wearing a familiar face.

The message was clear.

The war wasn’t Cybertronian anymore.

They’d made it theirs.

And that alone was enough to make Jazz feel strange in his own plating.

Cheerful music played faintly from somewhere above. Propaganda jingles.

“MECHS & MANKIND–HAND IN HAND!”

One screen played an ad for a Transformers cartoon that included both the Autobots and human characters.

Jazz watched in silence, optics dim.

Across the chamber, down on the main floor, he caught sight of a kid–maybe a year younger than the twins–sitting cross-legged on the floor beside a crate, twirling a red Autobot figure with horns through the air. Unlike themselves, this figure had not come to life. It was just scuffed and scratched but the kid was making little sound effects to himself, lost in his own world. Nobody paid him any mind.

Jazz watched as a woman scooped the child up and he clung to the Autobot figure, a frown playing on his dermas.

To this child, this mech was a relic. A hero from a war that was no longer his, and now belonged to this little boy.

Then, flash.

The lights overhead changed, causing warm, yellow strobes to begin pulsing slowly across the chamber. It seemed like a silent signal. Shelter-in-place.

People started moving faster but remained calm. Like they’d rehearsed it, though they probably had. Children and their families were herded toward the living quarters. Their food was dropped mid-bite. The screens switched to an emergency standby logo. All cheer muted at once.

Even the little boy scooped up by his mother could only whine when he dropped his figure, too busy hurrying away. No one had stopped to get it.

All of them were heading inward, all of them

All except her.

Rhea didn’t stop.

Guards gave her a look but then a nod when she showed a badge on her coat, Jazz noticing that she seemed to have some sort of clearance (and she had no time to explain that came with being her father’s daughter, as absent as he was, and best friends with Nellie).

Jazz felt the freight-lift-sized elevator shift as they entered before the doors slid closed, leaving them alone again.

Unlike everybody else, they were heading up.

The elevator rattled as it climbed.

Dust sifted down from somewhere above, shaken loose with each distant shockwave the closer they got to the surface and away from safety. The floor vibrated beneath Rhea’s boots in pulses, deeper now, rhythmic.

Inside her jacket, Jazz’s servo braced against the inside seam. He hadn't said a word since they boarded the lift. He didn’t need to.

She was tense, her grip on the panel rail had gone white-knuckled proving that.

She looked like she had a plan, but he knew she didn’t.

Jazz could feel that truth in her posture. The way that she didn’t hesitate, but not because she knew where she was going or what she was doing, only because she didn’t have time to question herself. There was no space to admit how scared she was.

Another tremor hit just as the elevator slowed, stronger this time. It had been enough to rattle the frame, to make her sway slightly on her feet.

He shifted closer in her jacket and felt her pulse spike just beneath his palm.

When the doors opened, the noise swallowed them.

Heat, light, shouts. Boots pounding the deck. Medical crews weaving between crates. A siren screamed past the ceiling like the base was howling.

No one noticed her in the chaos as she stepped off the elevator like she belonged, slipping into the river of movement with a shoulder that didn’t falter. Her coat hung low, hood over her hair without back.

Jazz leaned further inside her jacket but kept watching. His optics flicked fast–reading exits, guard posts, visual markers, watching the flow of bodies.

She kept moving but there was little direction in what she was doing. He could tell.

Rhea spotted someone loading supplies into a side carrier. She didn’t stop walking, just called out with that clipped tone that implied she belonged. “Winthrop’s deportation status?”

The woman didn’t look up, just pointed vaguely across the tarmac, already turning back to her crates.

“Cleared ten minutes ago. Bay Six.”

They kept moving.

He felt the shift in her chest, the barely-there falter when someone bumped her shoulder too hard. The only thing driving her forward without a plan was just urgency.

Just Rowan.

“Hold up,” he said softly, not wanting to draw attention to himself so he only spoke loud enough for her to hear. “You're circling. You passed Bay Five twice.”

Her pace slowed as if realizing she was lost.

“I know where Bay Six is,” she said tightly.

“You’re not thinkin’ straight. Take a breath.”

A pause as she followed his advice.

Then she turned left instead of right.

Inwardly, he used his systems to pull a few strings. It wasn’t hard, finding a way past with a few bypass keys with no problem at all and pulling up a map that covered his vision just slightly.

He adjusted so he had a clear angle through the collar fold, multi-tasking with directions, keeping an eye out for her, and navigating this map. “Crate stacks up ahead. You cut through there, you’ll hit the side access to the loading ramp. No cameras. One blind corner.”

Rhea didn’t answer but her route changed, telling him she was listening and following his directions.

She moved lower, slipped between two rolling storage bins, dipped past a tech team arguing over a damaged drone. Jazz guided her wordlessly after that, too many people around to hear, so he adjusted to just small taps to the collar–left, slower, wait–until they reached the outer edge of the flight bays.

The rumble of an incoming Talos made the deck groan. Something exploded far above, close enough to shatter one of the overhead panels and to make dust rain down in a fine sheet.

Rhea barely flinched as she ducked behind a support strut and looked up, blinking away the dust.

There, across the tarmac, Bay Six.

The hatch was half-sealed, countdown light blinking signaling that the command center was in operation for this Talos.

“Go,” Jazz breathed. “Now.”

She ran, slipping through the narrowing hatch just as it groaned shut behind them, sealing them inside the cockpit of the Talos unit.

Interior lights engaged, and in the metal fish bowl of a cockpit with a big old glass visor in the front stood two teenagers in the usual pilot suits, themed black with accents of blue and hot pink to match their Talo’s exterior.

One of them was Rowan.

He snapped his head fast over, the rest of him locked in with the Talos and his left arm beginning to calibrate with the left hemisphere. Even beneath the helmet, she could see his eyes widened, confused.

“Rhea?”

The other pilot beside him startled upright, but it was too late. The system was already cycling and the airlock engaged.

Jazz ducked lower, hidden again as Rowan blinked, his voice unsteady. “What are you doing here?”

Rhea reached for the harness on the wall, finding a way to strap herself in since this was only made for two pilots. “I’m not letting you do this alone. I was going to get you out of here but…” The cockpit sealed like a vault, answering that question.”

Metal groaned, hydraulics hissing, systems rushing online in waves of dim blue light. Inside, everything felt too small for what was about to happen.

The boy beside him shot him an incredulous look, confused. “Wait, she’s not cleared to be here–”

“She’s staying,” Rowan said without even looking up, going back to letting his hand fly over the console, preparing for the departure.

“But she’s not–”

“What’s your name?” Rhea asked suddenly.

The boy didn’t seem ready for the question, looking at her quite startled. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen.

He hesitated. “Corin.”

She nodded once, still getting herself secured knowing how bumpy this was going to get. “Okay, Corin. Let me make this easy. I’m not here because I think I belong in this cockpit. I’m here because he is.” She gestured toward Rowan, sharp and certain. “As for clearance, I passed all of my training for the Talos program with flying colors, so keep us alive or I’ll drag you out of that piloting lock and do it myself. I trust you passed your training, too?”

Corin stared at her for a second too long, blubbering for a moment before swallowing hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road, Corin. I’m glad you’re here.” Her voice was firm despite the kindness, the entire conversation made Jazz smirk up at her.

Corin nodded curtly. “Understood, ma’am.”

Rowan matched Jazz’s smirk a little, glancing up at her reflection in the glass through the display glow. “Still scary when you want to be, Rae.”

She didn’t look at him, just dropped her hand from the supper on the wall and rolled her shoulder like it’d been tensioned for too long.

Jazz vented slightly. Scary wasn’t wrong. But primus, she cared. She cared so loud it made everyone flinch.

Then, after control confirmed the lock and they met the rest of the frame of the machine, the Talos surged forward. The cockpit shook with the weight of it, metal groaning around them like a living thing waking up angry. Every movement thundered underfoot, hydraulic limbs wrenching free from the docking arms as the platform released.

The entire chamber began to shift. The weight of the Talos’ movement rumbled through the walls like tectonic plates rearranging themselves.

Rhea reached up and grabbed the inner bar above her head just as the docking clamps disengaged.

Jazz pressed tighter to the seam of her coat. He could feel the inertia building–the massive frame of the machine they sat in lurching forward, carried on hydraulic limbs the size of buildings.

Then…the doors ahead split open.

Light surged in, but not of a warm sun. It was smoke-drenched gray lit by fire and plasma and the unreal glow of charging particle cannons.

Jazz’s field pulled tight, for what he saw through the tiny slit in her jacket collar nearly unspooled him.

The idea of Decepticons in her world wasn’t just a thought, something you hear but don’t take seriously. Not that they didn’t believe her, because they did. But it was hard to wrap your helm around until it was right before your optics.

And there they were… And the Talos around them, monoliths of human war tech, were lumbering through not only the land but water. The battlefield was half-submerged, the ocean clawing at the edge of the broken city no longer inhabited.Steel grated against sand and stone and surf.

They were fighting by the sea.

It was daunting to think that they had been this whole time.

Jazz swallowed it all at once–the twisted image of storm-gray waves colliding with energy blasts, broken sky mirrored in water with the flames, smoke curling above the surface like it had nowhere else to go underneath the moonlight.

The Talos shuddered as its foot plunged into the shallows once it reached the shore, walking past the battle to where he was needed, and a spray burst upward.

He held tighter to the inside of Rhea’s coat.

The Talos moved like a skyscraper ripping itself off its foundation. The limbs that carried them forward, each the width of the little streets, splashed into coastal water already rising. Waves surged around the ankles of the war machine as it waded into a fight already well underway.

Smoke veiled half the horizon. The coastline stretched to either side, a blurred line of fractured bunkers and broken towers of the abandoned city. Debris washed up against rocks like bones amongst the fire and shredded metal of both Cyberonians and Talos.

Jazz noted someone flew overhead, too high for targeting, but unmistakable, wingline sharp and swept, optics burning white-hot.

That was Skywarp.

Skywarp, who sometimes warped into walls back home.

Another one–Thundercracker, trailing smoke from a shoulder panel, launched a barrage into a Talos further down the coastline.

And yet here, here they were gods of destruction, weaponized and relentless on this planet. Jazz watched another Talos lose its footing, crashing into the waves with a sound like a building imploding.

Rhea hadn’t slowed. She was braced, hand clamped on the ceiling rail, boots wide for balance as the Talos marched straight into the chaos.

In front of them, Rowan pressed forward in sync with the other pilot, their steps in the mechanisms controlling the Talos

The Talos unit hit deeper water. Jazz shifted as the floor tilted slightly, adapting to the new terrain. Saltwater sprayed up over the glass this time, and Jazz snapped back in.

Without a word, he tapped into their Talos Systems, finding an access code blocked.

He rerouted fast, and slid through an old relay that hadn’t been firewalled properly.

“I’m in their comm loop,” he muttered to Rhea as his visor filled with information to navigate. “Patching yours now.”

She took an extra comm from a compartment on the wall, slipping it into her ears as he flicked a line open, fed her a compressed readout of the surface scan.

Meanwhile Rowan at thrown a left-hemisphere punch, Corin bracing for the both of them. It had landed, knocking the intercepting Decepticon away.

“Hey, kid. Nice work.” Jazz said after opening the line, who visibly flinched at his voice. These comms were a little different than their own, so he had to speak aloud to use them. Quietly, so Corin didn’t know the voice was coming from the back of the cockpit.

“Jazz?! Are you–”

“Yep, Rhea and I are in this with ya.”

“Who the hell is Jazz?”

“I’m back at base, in the control room. Rhea’s with me. I’ll keep an eye on your schematics, so focus on that fight, kid.” A white-lie. But they had no time to explain Jazz, so he’d just have to speak quietly.

“Roger that.”

Alarms echoed overhead, interrupting them with long, sharp tones that cut through the cockpit.

The Decepticons were breaching it seemed.

He pulled up a map of strike patterns. He’d seen random, and worryingly, this wasn’t that.

“They’re not aiming to destroy,” Jazz said, inwardly skimming the projected interface. “They’re pushing. Driving Talos units back. Herding them.”

“Into what?” Rhea asked.

“I don’t know yet, but it’s deliberate.”

He tapped into one of the mounted cameras as the Talos unit pivoted, shoulder-cannons firing wide. Spray erupted from the water around them as missiles hit shallow targets.

The sound in the cockpit was deafening, even insulated, but Jazz kept moving.

One hand on Rhea’s inner coat, the other hooked to the terminal’s open data feed. His optics flicked through strings of code, relays, partial enemy pings, trying to find whatever was missing.

Behind him, Rowan’s voice rose over the comm: “Incoming left! Airborne, we’ve got seeker fire.”

Rhea’s breath hitched as she gripped the overhead rail tighter as the Talos swung around. The joint hydraulics screamed and Jazz braced as her body jerked sideways with the motion.

The blast outside painted the ocean white-hot for half a second.

They hadn’t even had a chance to recover because another explosion cracked through the horizon. The sky was bleeding and the waves were boiling under moonlight and flames.

And Jazz, tucked inside a jacket on the chest of someone who meant too much, did the only thing he could: trying to pin a line on their forces to figure out what their plan was here.

Static surged through his audials when he finally got a lock.

Then it cleared.

A voice cracked through, and he struggled to tune into it to make out words at first. It was Cybertonian, and thank primus they had someone who understood it.

He fed the direct line to the rest of them to hear as they fought.

<<—priority trace acquired. Resonance confirms match. No deviation. No spread. Target is isolated.>>

They threw another hand forward, electricity crackling as they activated the mechanism before sending it into the chassis of a Decepticon.

<<Secondary readings blocked. Shielded signals present. Dual live source exposed. Repeat: recover source. Suppress others.>>

Jazz froze as he listened. His frame tensed, not from confusion, but understanding.

Rowan glanced back, seeming to put the pieces together. “That’s not targeting the base. Those coordinates are us.”

Jazz didn’t answer right away, still listening as Rhea gave them both a concerned, intense look. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

<<Spark residuals consistent with earlier breach. Signal flare remains hot. Converge.>>

Spark residual?

What did–

If Jazz could’ve physically paled, he would’ve.

His processors flooded back to the conversation in which Ratchet and Wheeljack explained to Rhea when their sensors came back on that they were leaking a type of radiation from their spark. They explained how spark radiation was just uncontained energy that left traces around them. You could pin someone's location with a simple energon signature, and this would be worrying if not for the fact that they were in an alternate reality where it wasn't a problem.

But no one considered this when they were told that this was not true. There were other Cybertronians…

Not to mention the kids and Rhea's fields were smothered in their energon signatures... The most prominent field that had been around them was what showcased the loudest. It was akin to a Cybertronian's signature smothering a youngling's as a kind of warning.

And with the readings he was seeing, there was little doubt that the two pinged marks the Decepticon had were them.

Meanwhile, the Talos responded like a beast unchained, shoulders twisting, foot slamming down hard enough to send water exploding upward.

Technically, there were three here.

Why weren't there three? Was Jazz’s signal too small in this form?

From the open sea, two Seekers broke through the fog–flares of blue and violet light, optics narrowed.

Thundercracker again.

Jazz didn’t say anything, but he recognized the shape of the missile and the pattern of the dive.

He couldn’t shoot at this size, not anything that could do damage, but he could jam the frequency.

“Pull left!” he shouted. “Now!”

Rhea threw her weight to the side instinctively, bracing as the Talos turned wide. The missile missed the head by meters, disappearing into the surf and igniting underwater.

The cockpit jolted hard and Jazz smacked into her shoulder, caught himself, but the entire cockpit flickered under the sudden impact that hit them so hard that it would’ve thrown Rhea had she not been tied down.

Jazz sat still for a second, optics narrowed, listening to Rhea’s pulse. Still rapid. But steady.

And all he could think was–

Rowan swore, bringing their attention back as they tried to find their footing inside the cockpit, “Corin, man! Wake up.”

Corin had been knocked out upon impact, the panel holding him snapped that had allowed his head to smash against the wall. Some blood trailed down his forehead, but Jazz could read the kid with his sensors. “He’s okay, just knocked out.”

The cockpit trembled again. A deep, groaning noise echoed from the Talos frame as water pressed harder against the shell.

And he could feel, if her field was not telling enough, as Rhea’s heart lurched, her chest still hammered with adrenaline, but something felt… wrong. A deeper wrong than any incoming missile.

She tore her eyes from the floor and toward the glass visor of a wall for the Talos helm where it was now dark. It was dark, and the Talos was half submerged in the sea given that one of the pilots was out and neither was going to stand it up anytime soon.

Standing up.

It should’ve been simple. Just a motion. Just balance and breath and will. But in a world that cracked beneath your feet, standing meant something else. It meant choosing to keep going even when the ground didn't want you to. Even when the water was rising.

And the water was rising now, as sure as the sun fell each day.

The Talos had been thrown into the ocean and the glass visor groaned under the pressure of depth, pressed hard against seawater they weren’t meant to face. Inside, the air was still dry yet Rhea was trembling.

The sea was all around them, endless and heavy.

She hated it. She hated that there was no up or down–only pressure.

She hated the feeling of drowning.

Jazz was tucked close inside the lining of her jacket, his small form quiet, but alert as she began to unstrap herself andRowan unhooked himself, much too calm for how hurriedly he was moving, from the Talos mechanisms so he could walk freely. The console blinked at him, so many errors popping up, but the main one screaming that it was missing a pilot.

But Rhea was so distracted by the panic clawing just behind her throat that she hadn’t noticed things like she usually did. “We shouldn’t be this deep,” she whispered. “We need to surface. We need to move–”

“We will,” Rowan told her, voice even as he made his way over, the metal clank of the suit echoing in the suddenly quiet room.

Jazz could feel her field swirling with anxiety at it.

Without word, the boy handed her a piece of tech, part of his suit. One of the layers from the chest plate.

She blinked at it, confused. “What? Rowan–”

“I need to recalibrate the outer panels. There is a signal interference and this thing isn’t going to move without it.” He moved easily, too easily, stripping out of the rest of his pilot suit in practiced, quiet motions.

He pulled the pilot suit over her shoulders like armor, snapping it into place on her. Her skin was still damp with sweat and her breath caught in her throat as the system locked over her body. The suit was a bit big for her, but it clicked in place just fine.

If anything, it allowed space to remain on her person as the helmet locked over her and him. It was a bit tight, but his body rested in the top half of the chest plate while he peeked from the top to see. Normally that would’ve been impossible if it was made for her size, but the kid was taller than she was, plus a bit bigger.

Jazz’s head lifted slightly from her collar. “Kid,” he said, voice firm and suspicious, “what’re you doin’?”

“It should be fine, it’s an easy job,” Rowan muttered, rifling through a panel beside the seat. “I just need her to keep the Talos steady while I fix it. Corin can’t do it.” Proven by a single glance over at a still passed-out Corin.

But Jazz paused, and his helm tilted like he’d caught something–an interference over his hacked comms. A code burst that wasn’t theirs.

<<—new priority trace acquired. Resonance confirms match. Single signal present. Searching second signal now.>>

Jazz slowly began to realize.

The suit…

The suit blocked the spark residual energy that they poured out without a shield. It was why there were only two signals before, it was his and Rhea's... The suit blocked his spark residual before.

The same suit he gave Rhea and him.

Rowan closed a cabinet with something in hand–small, sealed, sharp.

She didn’t see it and neither did Jazz, because he tucked it away at his side and moved in such a hurry.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice reasonably laced with worry. “Rowan. I need to know the plan. We need to–”

His eyes met hers, far too calm and echoing something Jazz wouldn’t dare name out loud.

Jazz’s expression tightened, tone dangerous as he tried to warn him, “Don’t even think about doing what I think you’re doing.” He wasn’t going out there to fix a damn thing. It was a lie.

But he moved fast before Rhea could realize what was going on in her panic, and Jazz was much too small to stop him.

He slammed his hand on the button and depressurized it. Then he swung open the cockpit door, water creeping in a rush that made her slip as she rushed toward him only to be met by the slam of the door and water stopping, leaving nothing but the sharp hiss of locks engaging from whatever he had done to the other side.

Jazz flicked the comms on, and for the first time, he raised his voice at the youngling, “Rowan! What the frag do you think you’re-"

She tried to execute the same actions to open it back up, but it didn’t work. He had locked it from the outside somehow.

Rhea approached the lock and slammed her fist against the glass. “Rowan, open it! Open it, please—”

Memories rushed back into her like drowning, water practically rushing into her lungs even though it only caressed her feet.

Rowan didn’t flinch, only giving her a genuine little smile while underwater.

Sunsets were such fleeting moments. They only lasted so long, and you had to sink them in while they lasted.

He didn’t have time to tell her a bunch of apologies for lying or for yelling at her. He didn’t have time to thank her for everything she did for him. For being the only person he could count on.

There was so much he hadn’t said, but that was why Rhea had taught them what she did. When words fell short.

He raised a hand, and Jazz could’ve sworn he felt her heart sink to her stomach.

Slowed by the pressure of the water, his movements were slow in drawing a closed fist over his heart only to then open his hand toward her.

I see you. I remember. I’m with you.

Tears of realization welled in her eyes, and she realized that the soft glow of the sunset she hadn’t yet fully taken in was coming closer to the horizon. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t want tomorrow to come. Not when he was in today. “Rowan, please–”

And then he turned and pushed off into the dark, swimming with the device in his hand. Away from them and their hidden spark signatures. Away from the base where so many other spark signatures were that he cared about, hidden only by distance and the depth of the underground.

There was no way of knowing what would happen when the Decepticons got too close. But they knew they were there now, and somebody needed to buy them time and think they got the last of this mysterious Autobot spark signature.

What was one spark signature over a dozen, right?

“ROWAN!” Her voice shattered, shaking the mech with her to his core.

Jazz was swearing now, systems frantically trying to override the lock, override the manual seal– “He blocked the controls. Rhea, frag, he blocked it!” He kept trying, desperately. But how does one stop the sun from falling?

But Rhea couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

Through the curved glass, she watched him swim, just a blur of limbs in blue falling into the dark as the sea around him shimmered.

Jazz watched helplessly on his scanners as the Decepticons closed in on the single signal, taking the bait that led them further away from the two of them and the base. As the tears fell against his helm from Rhea as she tried to peel at the metal door with her fingers, not caring if they bled.

And just as the world narrowed to him–

The sea lit gold…

Then nothing.

Jazz froze. His voice caught in his vocalizers as a single ping blinked out on his scanner.

Signal lost.

No trace. No echo.

Just silence.

Rhea hated silence, he knew.

And the water stilled in the silence as the Decepticons above began to scatter…retreat. Their target was gone, so nothing was keeping them there for now.

And in the single second, not even a minute, of her sun falling below the horizon, Rhea fell to her knees in the cockpit, bruised hands trembling and bleeding. “No. No, no, no…”

Jazz looked up at her, optics glassy but trained to keep it together…

“Rhea,” he said gently after a minute or two of nothing but sobbing above him. She cried in the dark, lost as the sun fell. He didn’t have a chance to teach her yet, and he regretted it. All he could assure her while lost in the dark was, “Hey, hey. Look at me. I’m here. I’m still here with you.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her field was fracturing and ever so raw.

“I–I didn’t stop him–I didn’t–”

“You couldn’t have. He didn’t let you.” Jazz’s voice cracked slightly but he quickly checked himself. He had to keep it together for the both of them.

“But he was just–he’s just a kid… I’m supposed to protect him, Jazz. Jazz I can’t–” Rhea choked on a sob so hard she physically rocked, more tears falling down her face in what could only be described as a shattered dam that was already struggling to hold itself together.

His spark shattered with her, and it was so painful to feel and see her this way. He nodded solemnly, gazing nowhere else but her. “I know, Rhea. I know.” The accent fell away.

Then, quietly, “But you can’t stay here, you hear me?” She was trembling, her whole frame curled around her pain. “You’re still alive, with me. So is Corin. And we have to move.”

Her head snapped up, right toward the second pilot, Corin, who was still passed out. He was still breathing and very much alive.

Jazz reached up, one servo against her collar regardless if his servo got wet from the sheer amount of tears falling. “You can’t stay down here, Rhea.”

She shook her head, not quite thinking in her utter agony.

As hard as it was, Jazz had to make sure it wasn’t for nothing. That they got back okay. That they warned the others…

“He gave you that chance, Rhea. They’re gonna be comin’ for everyone at home once they ping their signals. He knew that.”

She tried to pull herself together enough to listen, but the tears just kept coming. The hollowness in her chest made her feel so alone, and she, she, she–

“I’m right here, darlin’.” He assured her, as if sensing this. “I’m stayin’. I promise. But you have to move. You have to stand up.”

And stand up she did.

Rhea choked down her next sob, trembling as she forced herself up in the suit that smelt of Rowan.

Rowan’s suit. Rowan’s suit. Rowan’s suit.

“You’re doing good, Rhea. I’m right here.”

Rhea hiccuped, driven forward by Jazz’s voice and his voice alone as she stepped into the feet-locks and the motion rig locking to her back and her left arm.

The Talos’ HUD was blinking now and the systems were stabilizing, kicking back as she tried and failed to catch her breath after such hyperventilation.

Pain exploded in her head as the system kicked in, a crying leaving her already raw throat.

She had no Drift partner. It was never meant to be done alone.

“Rhea! Are you okay?

But then she remembered that even without a drift partner, she was not alone.

The sun had fallen, so she would rise.

Rhea’s breath hitched.

And she stood.

Pain cracked through her skull. Her nose bled freely. Her hands shook on the controls. But she moved.

The Talos moved with her.

A cry tore from her throat, part agony, part war cry, as the Talos surged upward, rising from the sea floor like a titan reborn as the water shed from its armored plates. One slow step at a time.

Each motion was a heartbeat. A memory. A promise.

One foot.

Then the other.

And then...light.

The ocean broke.

The surface shattered like glass as they breached, water flying off the metal as the Talos stepped forward and back toward the base tall and trembling into the dawn.

The sun was rising.

And though she was bleeding, shaking, grieving–

Rhea did not fall.

She stood because she had a voice in her ear keeping her from getting blinded by the light.

Jazz was the only one able to lure her to sleep to experience tomorrow.

Jazz was the one who heard her melody when it fell quiet to everyone else.

And Jazz was the one thing keeping her from walking over the edge of the Earth when she wanted nothing more than to sink to the bottom of the ocean and grab her little brother’s hands once more as another one fell below the surface. 

Notes:

Now that we got her fear of drowning and being alone (aka silence) outta the way...
If I write accordingly, one chapter left of this arc... Then the whole story about to switch up.

GUYS DON'T HATE ME, I'm going somewhere with this... TRUST. Just a little more angst and trust... we will get back to fluff (domestic fluff included) soon... Just not right now :) (if it makes yall feel better I have a genuine phobia of insects and a carpet beetle crawled up my lap onto my laptop while writing this and I totally didn't overreact?)

Aka I took a deep clean break.

Chapter 14: Forever's Gonna Start Tonight

Summary:

"I'll see you."

The door opened slowly.

Not with urgency, not with the haste of fear or the tremble of relief. Just… slowly, like the weight of it was too much to bear. Like every motion cost her more than she had left.

And then there she was, framed in the threshold, half-soaked and hollow-eyed, the light of the cement hall base behind her dull and pale. Her shadow stretched across the metal floor like a ghost too tired to haunt.

Her clothes were very obviously ripped, but they were the same ones she had left in, but somehow looked so much heavier, making her steps…unhurried, unsteady, but unrelenting. Her nose had stopped bleeding long ago, leaving only dark red dried beneath one nostril, while bruises bloomed up her arms and beneath her clothes in uneven, silent bursts of purple and yellow. The blonde hair had been disheveled, some bits still brown and wet and clinging to her face. Some of that was seawater, some of that was tears.

Her hands were clenched around something–no, someone.

Jazz, cradled against her sternum, his frame limp and still, a pale glint of silver in her shivering grip. He, too, was speechless… But for an entirely different reason than those who witnessed them walk into the home.

The house went still before the door even shut behind her.

Madoc blinked hard, eyes locking on her from across the room. He took a half-step forward before freezing again as Astryd stiffened beside him, her expression flickering from confusion to alarm in the space of a breath.

Then Madoc was the first to rise, voice caught in his throat. “...Rhea?”

Astryd straightened, sharp concern flashing across her face. “Oh my god. What happened?”

Ironhide stepped forward amongst the shocked Cybertonians. “You alright?” Not a single bot was upstairs or hidden in one of the rooms–no, everybody waited for her, Jazz, and… Their return.

Ratchet spun around when he heard their voices, now grown big in the time she was gone, turned fully toward her with his optics narrowed, scanning every inch of the girl and Jazz. He didn’t speak right away, but he was already moving.

Her pedes hit the floor, but that was all she really heard since her hazed eyes could only make eye contact with the floor.She didn’t look at any of them. She couldn’t really see. Everything felt like a dream…. One big cruel dream where you couldn’t run fast, couldn't turn away, couldn’t wake up.

But she could hear his concerned voice, the syllables slicing through the air, with the heavy steps striding across the room toward her, “Rhea, what happened?”

Ratchet had been the first one on the bots to break out of their shock, processors all stirring with confusion and taking in the sight before them.

Elita-One rose from where she had been kneeling by a comms panel, her frame locked in place as if movement might shatter the moment.

Ironhide’s posture shifted forward a half-step before restraint pulled him back. The twins stood behind the couch, their smirks long gone,

Sunstreaker’s brows furrowed, Sideswipe’s intake slightly open, as if he'd started to speak but forgotten how.

The Decepticons remained on their side of the imaginary line in the living room that separated them from the Autobots, but not even they remained unscathed by the look she wore.

Never before had any of them seen Rhea so broken, like a star torn down from the sky by a selfish gravity. And what unsettled them the most was Jazz’s silence. He was a master of disguises, master of wearing a mask, but even he struggled to hide the absolute devastation on his faceplate.

“Are you hurt?” Ratchet asked with a tension that crackled in the air as she gently lowered Jazz on the floor, taking in the way her hands visibly trembled. “You're bleeding. Is your nose broken? Let me see your–”

She walked past them like they weren’t there, Ratchet cut off as she strode past him emotionless. As if they were holograms flickering in and out of a nightmare.

Her boots left small, uneven puddles in her wake, a trail of water and blood and silence. It only worried the whole room more, but no one knew what steps to take now.

Except for a stubborn, worried medic. Ratchet blacked her path with her health as his main priority. Definitely, nothing else that concerned him. Of, course not.

“Are you concussed? I need to conduct a scan and an exam.”

But she had said nothing, continuing to look at him with this gut-wrenching emotionless face. He’d have to be stupid not to note her flushed face stained with old tears, her eyes already beginning to puff.

And he knew what that meant. He had begun to put two and two together, but as much as it ached everyone’s spark, he was worried about her–

Not that he’d admit that out loud.

Instead, he demanded to know of her health.

“Rhea, talk to me.” Ratchet’s tone sharpened. “I need to know of your injuries. You probably have lingering adrenaline preventing you from feeling the pain you must be in.”

No…

No, she felt that. Pain.

She was just really good at hiding that way her heart was painfully ripped into pieces inside her with the lingering piecesof its previous stitches from the last time she had to pull it together, or the way her head hurt so bad it felt like a balloon inflating within her skull, or the way her skin felt ever so cold, like she had yet to resurface from the ocean’s surface.

She passed by Astryd, who instinctively reached out and touched her elbow with the question on everyone’s minds/processors, “Rhea? Where’s Rowan?”

Rhea’s eyes didn’t even flick toward her despite the way she visibly flinched. She just kept moving forward, like Jazz had helped her do before she could drown at the bottom of the ocean.

Perhaps if Jazz and the other kid weren’t in her hands, she wouldn't have fought so hard to get to the surface.

“Rhea!” Ratchet barked again, louder now, sharper. He showed his worry in peculiar ways, but it was how he reached people. “You need medical attention, so, let me help you-”

She didn’t stop.

“Rhea,” Bumblebee tried this time, and this time his voice was soft and tentative. As if that might reach her instead, “Are you okay?”

“She’s in shock,” Elita voiced from behind him with her own serious tone laced with worry that they all shared.

But Rhea didn’t hear either of them. Or if she did, she didn’t care to say anything. Because she was busy replaying every moment in her mind, over and over again like a scratched record looping the same verse of a song.

“Where’s the kid?” Ironhide asked almost rhetorically, suddenly grim as he and many others were slowly coming to the same conclusion. It wasn’t without basis.

Both Autobot and Decepticon were more than familiar with that look on Rhea’s face. And not a soul would wish it on anybody.

The twins, silent behind the railing, watched her cross the room without a word. Sideswipe's arms slowly lowered from where they'd been crossed while Sunstreaker leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.

They were the only ones, other than Jazz, that had remained quiet as the rest of the bots asked a flurry of worried questions–all ignored.

A quiet understanding from the three as she made it to the stairs.

Ratchet was on her heels now. “I need to check you–stop.”

She didn’t. She had already started up the stairs

“Rhea!” His voice echoed up after her, but she never once looked back.

“Ratch,” Jazz finally said, voice solemn, “Jus’ leave her be.”

“She is hurt!” He snapped at him, optic-ridges furrowed before his now massive frame moved after her. He reached the first stair just as she crested the top.

Jazz tried to speak, but his voice was a small thing. A speck against the weight pressing in on the entire house that had followed them as they moved up. Thank Primus the kids were at school…

Rhea didn’t look back, merely walked to her door of the “medbay” and opened it. Slipped inside. And shut it.

There was a beat of stunned quiet as Jazz reached the top step and quickly walked toward Ratchet who frowned at the closed door as if it might dissolve if he looked hard enough. Ratchet raised his servo to knock, hesitated, then rapped on the wood with firm urgency.

“Rhea. Open the door.”

He was met with her silence.

Jazz stood a few paces back, quiet, his optics dim as he stared at the door. The outline of the doorframe cast a faint shadow on the floor where her boots had left watery prints.

“Dammit,” Ratchet hissed, pulling his servo back and turning sharply. His optics landed on a still small Jazz, ignoring the rest of the bots, both big and small, and two humans that hovered nearby. “What in the pits happened out there?”

Jazz didn’t flinch, but he looked tired and quite small, in a different way than his size. He looked at Ratchet but didn’t speak. Just a quiet, unreadable stare that made Ratchet’s derma curl in frustration.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped. “She came back with blood on her face, carrying you meant to watch her, and no Rowan. The least you can do is say something.”

Ironhide’s voice cut in low, from the little crowd that had formed. “Was it the kid?”

Jazz didn’t move, keeping his back toward the others, like he was trying to find the words. Trying to make sense of this himself.

“Jazz,” came another voice–Elita-One this time. She had stepped to the front. “What happened?”

Jazz didn’t answer her either.

He turned his helm toward the door once more, dermas parting slightly and his servos twitching at his side to remain some sort of composure.

And then, in their own language to prevent a retelling with Rhea, the girl right through that door and perfectly capable of hearing them, he finally broke through the tension–

“It was Rowan.”

---

The day passed slowly, like something caught in amber.

Grief settled over the house like dust, clinging to every surface and every breath. No one spoke much. There was no need, everything important had already been said, or was too hard to say.

And Rhea never came downstairs.

Astryd had tried. Twice. Once gently, once more firmly, but both times she had returned to the living room empty-handed, lips pressed thin and gaze unreadable.

Madoc had knocked once too, and he hadn’t said much after she didn’t answer, just stood there for a long moment, then turned back down the hall and left her to the silence she’d chosen.

No one pushed harder than Ratchet.

He knocked often–sharply, insistently, without ceremony. Each attempt was met with nothing at all. Not even a footstep or shift from inside.

He wasn’t one to beg, but his jaw was tighter with every unanswered knock, every scan that couldn’t get a clear read through reinforced walls.

At one point, Skywarp offered to warp directly into the room. “I could be in and out before she even notices,” he shrugged, wings flicking in irritation. But Starscream shut that down before the idea had a chance to settle.

Time. That was what everyone said.

But Ratchet didn’t believe in waiting when someone’s health was in question.

“She went through a neural surge,” he snapped during one argument with Wheeljack and Optimus. “From a machine none of us even fully understand. And now she’s locked herself in a room with no monitor, no scan, no oversight. She could be dead!”

“She’s not.” Jazz offered quietly. He hadn’t left once, he sat listening to her inside from outside her door, seated there.

Ratchet only scoffed, to which Wheeljack had countered that forcing her out would only worsen things.

Optimus had agreed. “What she needs right now isn’t pressure. It’s space, andpeople nearby, if she decides she wants them.”

“What she needs,” Ratchet muttered, “is a medic.”

“I could break it down if you really–”

“Don’t,” Sunstreaker quipped as he and his brother walked out of the base, giving a serious look to Wheeljack who nearly caved at the thought of her needing medical attention.

Sideswipe looked quite similarly beside him as they passed, each passing a glance at the door with what one would dare call empathy. “You’ll make it worse. Just leave her alone until she’s ready to talk.”

Then they walked away, Jazz watching them go, thoughtfully. Who would’ve thought that they were on the same page as him?

However, it made sense given their own history. If anyone understood her place and her reaction mixed into it, it was them.

Ratchet hadn’t liked that answer regardless, fretting like some mother hen.

Which Optimus advised that it would be wise not to push her into a conversation or confrontation that she wasn’t ready for.

“Wise,” he scoffed. “What’s wise is not letting someone sit with a fractured nervous system after what she just endured, while I do nothing. Because nobody will let me perform my function.”

Jazz had only said, “I’m keeping an optic on ‘er.”

Ratchet had gestured sharply toward the door. “Hard to keep an optic through a wall.”

Jazz, sitting cross-legged on the floor outside her room, didn’t argue. He simply raised one servo and tapped two fingers lightly against the side of his helm, right near his sensitive horns.

He had excellent hearing.

Not just good. Scary good.

But that came with being an outlier, not that more than a sparing few knew that–and Ratchet was one of them.

Ratchet narrowed his optics at the mech, and after a long moment, he let out a low, resigned vent and turned, walking away with the heavy clunk of a medic whose servos had been tied.

And Jazz stayed where he was, back resting against the door.

He hadn’t moved all day.

On the other side of the wall, so close it felt like they might be touching without knowing it, she sat too.

He listened very carefully and tried to pin what she was up to. Most of the time it was just sitting there, quietly.

Though, he had heard the way her tears fell about an hour ago. It wasn’t loud, not even consistent, just the kind of crying that happened when it finally caught up with you, when it had nowhere else left to go. But she quickly shoved that back down, bottling it up some more after merely a minute or two.

Still, he didn’t speak. Didn’t knock. Didn’t try to fix it.

He just sat there, because she needed someone to, even if she didn’t know it herself.

And he waited, and waited, and waited…

---

Until another few hours had gone by…

She knew that the kids were gonna be back soon, but she couldn’t help but remain curled up on the floor, back against the wall, knees tucked tight to her chest, arms around her legs like that could keep her from falling apart. The carpet beneath her was stiff and threadbare beneath her palms.

Outside, the world kept moving, she knew because she listened, too.

She was so used to being the one who listened.

She could hear the sounds of it: footsteps, voices, the low hum of a datapad whenever someone passed by with one, the clatter of mugs in the kitchen, likely the bots getting coffee, the occasional echo of someone trying not to walk too loudly nearby only to skid down the stairs. She could hear the confirmation that the groundbridge was done. There was nothing keeping them here anymore.

They could leave.

Yet, they remained, because the only thing keeping them here was knowing they weren’t okay.

The thought made her sick and glad at the same time, for entirely selfish reasons.

And Jazz, who she knew was sitting silent against the door. She could hear him shift every now and then, but it was so quiet she nearly couldn’t.

He never knocked nor ever asked her to come out, but stayed close enough that she knew she wasn’t alone.

It was…

Then the quiet broke all at once, and her attention was drawn to the faint murmur downstairs, far too muffled to make out but sharp in tone.

Then came raised voices, and she could make out Madoc’s voice rising in quick protest, Astryd cutting in right after, unmistakably defensive. And then something heavier… A deeper voice that froze Rhea in place, eyes widening.

She heard Jazz move, the little metallic click of him rising to his pedes.

In the time it took him to get up, a louder voice rang out from downstairs, clear and unmistakable. “I’m not leaving until I see her!”

Rhea shot up.

Her legs wobbled slightly, stiff and trembling from hours curled in the same spot, but she reached for the doorknob, hesitated only a second, and ripped it open.

Jazz turned immediately, stepping back to give her room, but falling into a run beside her the moment she started walking. Even small as he was, he matched her urgent pace.

They reached the top of the stairs just in time to hear Astryd growl, “I told you, she’s not–”

Rhea skipped steps as she went down, leaving Jazz behind, but stopped in place when she saw him, confirming the voice was not just her imagination.

Standing in the doorway with a half-drunk slouch and a too-big coat over his military uniform–her father. His hair was thinning at the temples, face unshaven, eyes just a little too red around the edges. He looked exactly how she remembered him, and yet somehow so much smaller.

But his presence never failed to make the temperature in her chest drop.

Her hands clenched as she stared harder at the man who never failed to keep coming back when he was least wanted.

This was just perfect.

Astryd’s hand was flat against his chest, blocking him from stepping further in, but he wasn’t budging. Madoc stood just beside her, arms crossed, brow furrowed with sharp-edged irritation as if daring him to lay a hand on her let alone step further inside the home.

With a glance toward the kitchen, she could see that the larger bots had ducked out of view–Elita, Ironhide, Wheeljack, and the twins staying hidden, keeping to the corners and ducking so they wouldn’t be seen by the last person that needed to know they existed. Thank god for the blankets thrown on the machine in her living room.

The figurine-sized bots had vanished altogether, tucked behind console units or furniture. She had seen Skywarp though, right as he had grabbed Thundercracker and warped them out of sight, reappearing up near the top of the bookshelf where Starscream had a vantage point to watch from above.

It was a war zone of careful silence, and Rhea stepped into the middle of it.

“There she is,” her father said, spotting her with a kind of triumphant relief. “Rhea.”

Astryd’s voice was sharp. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

“You told me she wasn’t here.”

Madoc didn’t miss a beat. “She’s not. Not for you.”

“You’re not her parents,” her dad shot back like he had any right.

Astryd’s expression sharpened to a blade. “I don’t see any of them in the room, anyway.” This made her father scowl.

“What are you doing here?” Rhea asked, cutting in with a hoarse voice, low and broken, but it had done enough to silence the room. When really she was afraid if she spoke any louder, she might lose what little control she had over holding herself together right now.

He looked at her with an expression he probably thought was softened. “I came to see you. People said you were in the battle today, so I heard you finally stepped up and joined the Talos Program. I was… glad to hear it, really.”

Rhea stared at him, unmoving. Her arms slowly folded across her chest, not to close off, but to hold herself together.

“You finally left the house,” he went on, tone a little too light as if he wasn’t insulting the girl while pretending to know anything about her. “And everybody else got to see it but me? I had to come. It’s been so long–I didn’t even recognize you at first. You look tired. Still beautiful, but tired. The mission probably wore you out. It used to do the same for me when I first started, but of course–”

“Rhea,” Astryd warned under her breath, cutting him off with zero shame. Both her and Madoc despised the man.

“I just wanted to see my daughter. Make sure she was okay.”

Rhea’s silence sharpened into something else.

He smiled faintly, gesturing vaguely. “The kids aren’t even here, right? I figured I could talk to you. One-on-one. No distractions. No… Rowan trying to interrupt like always.” He laughed as if his name didn’t land like a slap.

Or rather like scissors, cutting the strung-tight threads barely holding her steady, and her jaw clenched at the sudden loss of support.

She stared at him for a long moment before her voice came cold and quiet.

“Rowan is dead.”

A beat passed.

He blinked. “What?”

His face twitched, not in grief, but in calculation. Then, after another few seconds, he seemed to pull it together with that tone she knew all too well. “God… God, that’s awful.” He shook his head with a sigh, but his eyes were dry. “Jesus. No one tells me anything.”

He ran a hand through his thinning, greasy hair. “You know, it’s just like what happened with your brothers.”

Rhea’s stomach turned as he managed to find that knife inside her and twist it in harder.

“I mean, really, the exact same feeling,” he went on as if he were narrating his loss, his trauma, his pain.

He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes like the memory hurt him more than it did her. “I know exactly how this must feel for you. When I heard about the battle and then came here… I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. Father’s intuition, I guess.”

Rhea stared at him, frozen, mouth open slightly in disbelief.

Were these words coming out of his mouth? Did he even hear himself?

The hurt bloomed in her chest, and she couldn’t even register it as different kind of pain that made her eyes sting, instead feeling only the utter hatred bubble back to the surface so hot it made her skin flush.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he added softly, trying to sound gentle and move toward her. His hand reached out as if to rub her head, and her mind flooded with memories when she was too young to know how cruel this man was–when he used to softly brush her hair behind her ear over and over in a tracing motion whenever she was upset. It made her sick to her stomach.

“I do know what this feels like. You think I don’t think about them every day? Your brothers… it’s like losing them all over again.”

That was it.

Her throat tightened, and then she snapped. “Do not come in here and start comparing this.”

Her voice was sharp, shaking, but undeniably furious as she put her foot down. “It is not the same.”

And every person and bot felt it, frozen in their hiding places from where they listened. She was all but certain they were all listening, but all she could see was red.

“The only thing that hasn’t changed is that you are never there!”

He blinked, his face tightening into that familiar, self-pitying mask. “I’m here now.”

“You’re here when you want to be!” she barked back, something in her that's been building for years unraveling faster than she could stop it. And she found she didn’t want to. It was so hard to keep herself together and she couldn’t spare another piece trying to spare his feelings. “Not because you care, but to make yourself feel better. To wash away the guilt of being drunk and passed out while my brothers died! Your sons!”

His mouth opened, but she didn’t stop. “I couldn’t save them, Dad.” Her face twisted painfully, everything she had been telling herself in her own silence now loud and clear.

He swallowed hard. “I should’ve been there to help them. You’re right.” But she knew better. She knew he was a fucking master at saying just the right thing to make you think he cared. To draw you in long enough to use you as a shield against an arrow flying right as his own heart.

“No. I should’ve been there to help them.” She corrected him with a snarl. “I was the one there for them. They didn’t want you. They didn’t need you. I needed you.”

He was trying to cut in, hands up in surrender to try to get her to stop, because god forbid it was hard to hear this all laid out for him–but she shouted over him. “Where were you when Mom died? Where were you when I tried to save them? Where were you when they died?”

He’d hear it. She didn’t give a damn.

Whether he listened or not, she didn’t even care. She needed so badly to tell him this to his face instead of suffering in silence.

“Why did I end up in a group home, not because my parents were dead, but because one of them pretended I didn’t exist?! Dad, I was alone for so long.” She stepped back, tears now streaking down her face, hot against her flushed cheeks, but her tone never softened. “These kids–they’re all I have. And now Rowan’s gone, and they’re going to suffer the same damn fate. And I can’t do anything about it.”

“I’m here now–” he tried again, almost pleading, but his voice still circled around himself, like she was a mirror he needed to clean.

“Well, you’re too late!” she shouted, voice shattering so audibly it made all of her friends flinch.

“I have a life, Rhea!” He finally snapped in his facade, shouting back in her face. Madoc and Astryd linger, hands ready to shove him back the second their friend needs it. “I have a life, and I heard in passing that you were finally doing something with your life. Maybe I’d finally ask you to come move in with us. I would love that! But you never wanted me around!”

Her chest heaved as she listened, and listened to every word. Rhea was good at listening, even when she wanted nothing more than to hold her hands over her ears and live in her own pain-free world. But that would make her alone, and the thought of that scared her right back into the lion's den.

“You’re saying all this af it’s going to change anything, Rhea. What happened, happened. That’s not my fault.” But it was, she wanted to say, but found her voice robbed from her. Perhaps her mind was a bit too attached to the Little Mermaid movie she watched with Jaxon and Cora the other night.

“So it doesn’t hurt me or affect me moving forward with my life by any means. Because I have a life, and you’re the one that made it without my first kids.” The implication made her chest hurt, like she couldn’t breathe. First kids. His new life.

Was it really that simple for him? Did she mean… nothing?

Drowning, drowning, drowning.

She was drowning again. She had to be.

“Maybe one day, since clearly it’s not today, you’ll wake up and reach out to me.”

As much as she didn’t want him in her life, as much as she wished he’d go away, as much as she wanted him to die right in front of her as morbid as that might be, the betrayal of being discarded all over again hurt her all over again.

But now she didn’t have Rowan. She didn’t have Icarus and Sorren.

And she was fucking drowning all over again.

In a spiral of anger and hurt, her head broke the invisible surface with a gasp, spitting out in a single breath, “I don’t need you anymore! I’ve always been good at managing myself, right? I figured out how to do it without you. So don’t let your guilt keep you here. Go live your new life you hopefully won’t fuck up too.”

“That’s not–”

“I never want to see you again. Get out.”

“Take care then, Rhea. You only ever–”

“I SAID GET OUT!” The words shook the entire downstairs.

She’d never yelled like that before. Not ever.

Her father blinked, stunned, face pale. He backed away, shoulders jerking as he dragged a hand over his face as Madoc and Astryd forced him back out the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Rhea stood there, shaking as she stared blankly at the door.

Madoc and Astryd rushed to her side, but she took a step back, one hand raised, just enough to keep them at arm’s length.

It was enough to make them stop as her arms quickly wrapped around herself, face streaked with tears she didn’t even try to hide. Her body was vibrating from the force of what she’d just said as the bots crept out slowly from their hiding places.

Jazz rushed down from the last step, having hidden in the blindspot near the wall, watching as she hugged herself and refused to let alone give her that comfort.

All he wanted was to hold her, to anchor her, to make it stop, but he couldn’t in this size. And he despised being a figurine more than ever at this moment.

Timing had not been on their side today, because the front door opened again.

The whole room stiffened, some taking a step forward as if expecting it to be her father again, only this time it was the kids.

All three voices lit up in unison, “Rhea!”

She flinched, trying to scrub her face fast as they ran in, excitement bubbling, but immediately slowed when they saw her.

They were young, but not stupid.

“H-hey,” she tried, anyway. “How was school?”

“Good…” Cora answered slowly, frowning at the older girl. “You okay?”

Rhea tried to smile but it didn’t work the way she had intended.

Thankfully, before the weight could collapse again, Madoc swept in. “Alright, troops. Kitchen, stat,” she ordered with light authority. “I heard Bee and Blue have been pacing all day waiting for the rest of Lilo & Stitch. You gonna leave those poor mechs hanging? I think snacks are an order.”

The kids perked at the sound of that. Yesterday they had come to the conclusion that the bots were Stitch and they were just like Lilo, so it was their current attachment.

Chromia helped him usher them into the kitchen with ease, with just enough energy to distract, just enough gentleness to shield.

Rhea turned before anyone could stop her and made for the stairs again, breath tight and shallow. She hadn’t given anybody time to even ask if she was okay.

Turns out, they hadn’t needed to.

The moment she stepped inside her room, she stopped upon realizing Ratchet was already there, waiting for her.

She tried to breathe to gather her composure to face him, but it came out ragged. Her cheeks were still wet. Her shoulders shook, even though she was clearly trying not to let them. She wiped at her face like it was an inconvenience.

Maybe it was best if she didn’t speak… She didn’t know if she could pull it together again.

Yet, Ratchet had no problem in telling her, “Sit.”

She didn’t argue this time, nor did she say anything at all. She just moved across the room and lowered herself to the edge of the bed, her knees pressed together and hands tangled in the hem of her sleeves.

She stared at the floor, breathing still ragged as hard as she tried to cover that up.

Ratchet crouched down beside her slowly, much bigger than the girl now, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. He pulled out his scanner once more, her skin prickling uncomfortably at the feeling of it rushing up and down over her body before disappearing.

“Look at me,” he directed in an even tone as he conducted his exam.

She did as he asked, only to find that his servos were surprisingly gentle as he checked the swelling along her jaw, finding lingering bruising where her head had collided with the wall during an impact. His other servo cradled the back of her skull as he angled her face, checking for any irregularities.

“Frontal lobe is undamaged,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “No visible trauma on the occipital ridge.” He made her follow a few exercises. “Pupil reaction normal.”

She didn’t speak throughout the entire exam as they worked through the entire thing, testing out limbs, checking every bump and bruise, making sure her brain was okay beyond a simple headache.

At least…not until a soft, hitched hiccup broke through her throat, so quiet he almost missed it.

His optics shifted back toward her to find she was still just sitting there, hunched over with her shoulders caving in allowing her blonde hair to cover her face. But he’d have to be blind to not notice her knuckles turning white as she clenched her hands, the only indication of her soundless tears being the few drops on the skin of her hands. The hiccup had given her away.

There was something reverent in the way he placed the scanner back into his subspace and adjusted the tilt of her head. His servo lingered, thumb brushing just slightly across her temple like he could soothe the ache away if he tried hard enough.

He didn’t speak again until she finally broke the silence. “I should’ve been the one,” she whispered, broken.

He didn’t interrupt, listening to every word.

“If I’d done the Talos thing like they wanted… If I had taken the suit… he wouldn’t have had to go. He wouldn’t’ve been out there. It was supposed to be me.”

Ratchet vented, getting confirmation where her head had been the past few hours and corrected her, “You were trying to protect him.”

“It wasn’t enough.” Her nails dug into her palms harder, if possible. “I should’ve been the one to die. He wasn’t–he wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Don’t say that.” Ratchet told her firmly, optic-ridges furrowed. “You couldn’t have known.”

Rhea thought otherwise.

Ratchet didn’t look away from her. He didn’t soften or flinch. He let her say it. Let her sit in it. Let her fall apart on her own terms, as long as he wasn’t closed out by a door so he could see where the pieces fell and could gently pick them back up.

“You protected him the best way you knew how,” he reminded her again after a moment.

“But it didn’t work. He’s dead.” She crumpled again, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“You’re still a youngling.”

“I’m not anymore.”

Ratchet knew she wasn’t in the mood to argue, but shook his helm in slight frustration. Not at her, but the place she had been put in.

Her eyes flicked to the desk, right to the phone she’d left there face down and motionless.

Ratchet tracked the look, only for his optics to dim slightly. He did a good job at covering this, straightening as he told her, “Your head’s okay, but I’ll get some of those red pills you gave–” He silenced himself before mentioning his name. “Those red pills.”

“Tylenol.”

“Yes, that. I’ll get you a few. In the meantime, you need to recharge.”

She gave no indication that she had heard him, still staring at the phone.

He had turned to go get the red pills before he stopped at her whisper, just loud enough to catch her admitting, “Nellie was right.”

His whole frame stilled, his optics locked on her with an intensity that said everything he was thinking.

Wrong. Dangerous. Don’t.

There were a thousand things he could say he was right about, and very few things he could admit to being wrong about. But he knew Nellie being right fell into a non-existent category, leaving him to see the way she clung to the comfort of trying to protect the only way she was told how.

He could snap at her, but Ratchet wasn’t stupid. This was Rhea.

So, with his optics rolled to the ceiling, he reached up and tapped his comm silently.

Yet the door opened almost before he finished the comm, and Jazz stepped through like he hadn’t heard a thing over comms. Like he’d been waiting outside the whole time, ready to push through the second Ratchet gave him space–which definitely wasn’t true…

He didn’t say anything about what he’d overheard, in any of the conversations that occurred today. He just grinned slightly, servos sat on his hips like nothing was wrong. He was good at that.

“Hey, Rhea.”

She blinked at him, slow with her red eyes.

“How you doin’?”

The question was simple and just soft enough to offer a thread back to the surface.

She sniffed. “Peachy.”

He nodded like that was a fine answer and then walked up to the edge of her bed and sat down on the edge with her after a bit of a climb.

Despite Ratchet having called Jazz here to not only keep an optic on her, but to keep her from falling further off the deep end, he didn’t leave. He stayed near the desk, instead comming Prowl to find the medicine for her head of his few options of mechs that might actually be able to, watching her as Jazz kept talking.

It wasn’t enough to fix it, but it was something.

And right now, something mattered.

---

The world didn’t stop just because Rhea wanted it to.

Dinner came and went in the usual rhythm, even if the quiet felt louder than it should’ve, and Rhea had been lying since the moment she woke up.

Ratchet had given her Tylenol for the ache and Benadryl to help force a nap she needed, something to reset the adrenaline still clinging to her nervous system.

She slept, if you could be called that when it had been mostly just a restless blur of white noise behind her eyelids, but it was enough to keep her steady now. At least, steady enough to put one foot in front of the other as she faced the kids downstairs. To lie.

When the kids asked where Rowan was, her voice didn’t even shake. “He’s gone for now,” she’d said softly, settling down on the edge of the couch as she smoothed out the edge of a throw blanket. “He’s got some stuff to take care of.” And she didn’t look at anyone when she said it.

But the kids didn’t question it. They had taken her at her word because that’s what kids do. They trust what you tell them. They let you protect them with soft stories and vague answers.

After dinner, the house settled into its nighttime routine like muscle memory. Astryd took the lead, ushering Calix and Cora into the bathroom with towels over her shoulder and a worn “alright, let’s get you scrubbed" tone. Madoc started on the dishes, music humming faintly in the background from a half-used speaker, the clink of cutlery playing over it in rhythm. Jaxon had already been trying to avoid going next with his bath but was coaxed into it with the promise of ice cream afterward.

They were all promised ice cream by a very sad Rhea, giving them everything they asked for tonight.

“Living room tonight,” Rhea had said earlier, her voice still quiet but lighter. “It’s a movie night.” That had made them cheer, like it was the best news they’d heard all week. They were never allowed to have dinner or dessert in the living room.

But now? Something had changed, or rather, they had noticed and were waiting for Rhea to be away from someone toask...

The kids padded into the kitchen one by one for their ice cream, heads slightly lower than usual, eyes darting between the fridge and the grownups. The energy was still there, but thinner and hesitant, like they didn’t quite know what they were feeling.

Sideswipe leaned against the fridge with his arms crossed, watching the quiet unfold with a furrowed optic-ridge whileBumblebee opened the freezer and Bluestreak rummaged for the colorful plastic bowls someone had tucked into the cabinet. The cabinets thudded open and shut, but the atmosphere stayed soft.

Astryd noticed first that something wasn’t quite right with them and their quest to get ice cream.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, drying her hands on a towel as she turned toward them. That had caught the attention of those in there, though they did their best not to show that.

Calix shrugged, then rubbed his arm and answered honestly, “Rhea’s really sad.”

Sideswipe glanced away while Bluestreak stilled halfway through pulling out a spoon.

But Astryd was the one to step forward and crouched down in front of the kids. Her knees cracked, but she didn’t flinch, making sure to look them each in the eye–Cora, Calix, Jaxon, all blinking at her like they were trying to understand something they didn’t have the words for. Which…well, was true.

“She is sad,” Astryd admitted softly, brushing a hand through Jaxon’s brown head of curls. “But you know what might help her feel a little better?”

“What?” Jaxon asked.

Astryd smiled, but it was rather tight. “A hug from you guys. You think you can do that when you get back in the living room?”

All three lit up at once.

“Yes!”

“I’ll hug first!”

“She likes group hugs better,” Calix added helpfully.

Astryd stood again, grinning faintly. “Let’s get you that ice cream then you guys can get to it.”

Bluestreak handed each of them a bowl with a theatrical flair, spinning them like trophies before passing them down the line. Bumblebee offered the ice cream itself with a soft smile, his frame shifting gently to crouch down beside them as he helped scoop, but he wasn’t much help with Cora who claimed she wanted to do it herself. It was amusing, to say the least.

Meanwhile, Madoc, still elbow-deep in suds, watched from the sink with tired eyes, but a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

And Sideswipe… Well, he stayed near the counter, leaning back with casual disinterest until the kids had all rushed out of the room with their bowls and a chorus of laughter trailing behind them. He waited until their footsteps faded into the hum of the television in the living room.

Then he pushed off the wall, walked over to the counter, and picked up a bowl already waiting. He scooped a careful portion into it, not saying anything as he fished a spoon from the drawer and added it without flair, ignoring the silent glances he got.

He stepped into the living room and immediately noticed that the TV screen had lit up with a cartoon–another Transformers show the kids were hooked on, and he was fairly interested in watching, the theme song blaring something cheerful and completely oblivious to the mood in the room. The kids were already piled on the couch, bowls in hand, halfway to sticking spoons in their mouths.

And in the middle of them, Rhea.

She was seated in the corner, legs curled under her, wrapped in one of the big knit blankets Madoc had found ages ago. The kids had clearly launched their ambush, Cora and Calix pressed into either side of her, arms wrapped around her middle, and Jaxon sprawled awkwardly across her lap. All three hugged her at once.

Her face–Sideswipe saw it as he approached–was caught somewhere between overwhelmed and holding it together. Her lips trembled faintly, but she smiled anyway, her arms curled around the little bodies hugging her with a tenderness that was instinctive.

There was a crack in her expression. Not quite enough to break but he didn’t allow her the chance to do so. Instead, when they pulled apart, excitedly digging into their ice cream, Sideswipe leaned over the couch and handed her the bowl.

“You know,” he said, voice casual, if not smug as always, “you humies keep saying this stuff is amazing, and I think it’s a bit unfair we can’t eat it.”

She looked up at him, face flushed from the day, but she took the bowl, nodding slightly.“Thanks.”

It wasn’t the reply he was looking for from her, used to their sibling-like bickering, but settled for it as he gave her a small, knowing shrug and turned away–not far because he was not about to miss more transformers.

She held the bowl without eating.

And Sideswipe was aware that Jazz was curled on the end table again, not saying anything, just watching her with quiet awareness. She hadn’t noticed yet, but he was close. Just in case, as always.

By the time the credits rolled with cheerful music that felt too bright for the quiet it followed, Rhea was leaning back against the couch, arms wrapped loosely around Calix’s small body. The little boy had slumped fully into her by the halfway point of the movie, his breathing slow and even now, head tucked under Rhea’s chin as he fought against sleep.

The other two weren’t much better off.

Jaxon had curled up on the far side with a blanket pulled over his legs, blinking slowly at the flashing screen. Cora had half-dozed upright beside Bumblebee, who sat motionless and careful, letting her lean against his arm like a pillow.

Madoc had risen quietly sometime near the end, collecting the empty bowls with a sort of practiced ease, stacking them with a glance and heading into the kitchen without needing to be asked.

Rhea stood slowly, gently adjusting Calix so he didn’t wake.“Hey, let me help with that.”

Madoc glanced over his shoulder and gave her a quiet smile. “I’ve got it.”

She hesitated, but was too tired to argue.

Instead, she nodded and began to lift Calix as she rose from the couch. She carried him carefully, feeling the little boy’s breath warm against her collarbone, arms around her neck in a sleepy instinct.

Bumblebee had scooped Cora up with tender precision, the little girl mumbling tiredly with words Rhea didn't catch. Bluestreak gently took Jaxon’s hand, holding it tightly as the boy swayed a little on his feet, fighting the last waves of drowsiness.

The hallway was dim and soft-lit as they climbed the stairs together to put them to bed and let the sun fall once more.

Rhea’s steps were slow, and behind her, Bluestreak kept up a steady stream of gentle encouragement to the sleepy kid. “Almost there, Jax.”

“Can I sleep with the twins? I don’t want to sleep in my room by myself,” Jaxon mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Her chest panged, and she was quick to nod. “Of course you can.”

Bluestreak lit up, tone hushed but excited. “It’ll be like a sleepover!”

They reached the kids’ room without fuss and Rhea stepped inside and gently lowered Calix into his bed, brushing his hair back with careful fingers. Her other hand adjusted the pillow behind his head, then moved to smooth the blanket over his knees. A familiar routine she had done a hundred times over.

Bumblebee laid Cora on her own bed, to which she sleepily asked the yellow mech to lay beside her–he didn’t argue.

Bluestreak had helped Jaxon pull the spare mattress onto the floor from the other room to sit between the beds, and he was already fluffing a pillow when Rhea knelt beside him. She tucked the blanket around his legs, brushing her hand gently through his hair. His lashes fluttered, eyes too tired to fight anymore.

Once everyone was settled, she sat on the floor beside the mattress, smoothing a wrinkle in the sheet. Her voice was soft when she spoke. “Hey,” she swallowed hard, working up the courage. “I’m gonna be going away for a little bit.”

Three pairs of eyes blinked slowly at her, a little more awake now.

“Astryd and Madoc are going to be in charge while I’m gone, okay?”

Cora yawned. “Do we still have to go to bed on time?”

A quiet laugh slipped from her. “Yes.”

Cora frowned at that, nose scrunching.

“You’re still gonna have rules,” she told them, smiling faintly, reaching over to brush the hair from Cora’s forehead. “And you’re going to listen. Be good.”

“Where are you going?” Calix asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhea hesitated, for in the doorway, Jazz had leaned against the frame, silent as ever but she somehow always managed to pin his presence watching her, listening when she was so unused to the feeling. It made her tense.

Bumblebee and Bluestreak, from where they sat with the kids, furrowed their optic-ridges slightly, confusion flickering across their faceplates. Neither of them said anything, but both were watching her now, obviously concerned by her words.

“I’m going to help Aunt Nellie,” Rhea admitted slowly and far too vaguely.

Calix’s eyes widened. “With her work?”

“Mhm.”

“No way!” Cora sat up slightly, sleep forgotten. “Like the big Talos?”

The smile she gave them didn’t reach her eyes, but she tried. She really did. “Just like the big Talos.”

“You’re gonna be just like the Autobots!” Jaxon grinned as if this was amazing news.

She swallowed, her throat aching, but the image lit them up, and that… that was worth everything. Even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “I sure am.”

They looked at her like she was a hero already, and it made her smile again, just enough to make her heart crack and swell at the same time.

“Can you sing?” Calix asked her quietly, sensing she was about to leave the room to let them sleep.

“Of course.”

Her voice was soft and gentle. A lullaby they’d all heard before, taking the three bots back to their first night in the home. Time was different for them, yet it felt like a lifetime ago.

It was all bittersweet and a bit sad, like they all clung to a fleeting moment as she sang with her fingers combing through hair, smoothing blankets, pulling sleeves over hands that fidgeted until still. The room dimmed slowly, as if responding to her tone, and one by one, they slipped into sleep.

She sang softly until the last eyelash stilled and the room was quiet again.

She sat there a little longer, hand resting on Jaxon’s shoulder, breathing in the warmth of them. The rhythm, and the comfort, and hell, the ache.

Moments like this should last forever, and she wished they did.

Jazz continued to stand still in the doorway, small arms crossed and his gaze unreadable yet fixed on her.

Bluestreak looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Bumblebee shifted as if debating whether to offer comfort, but she hadn’t allowed the chance.

They had already commed Optimus and the others about the new revelation as she sang them asleep, and a part of her knew that.

Her eyes were tired, but steady as she severed the chance for clarification or goodbyes she wasn’t ready for. It was easier to ask them for a small promise. “Watch over them. Please.”

They nodded without hesitation. “Always,” they said.

Rhea rose with care, a final glance at the sleeping figures in bed and on the floor, before she walked past Jazz.

He only turned and watched her walk down the hall, right toward her room.

And he nearly followed.

But his hearing, the silent resentment that had been building, the knowing, had driven him in the opposite direction for the first time since he had met her.

Jazz knew she was coming, and he could hear her when the door opened with no announcement or knock. Nellie walked in like she belonged.

He made his way to the counter, climbing up as her boots met the tile and she strode in with a coat slung over her arm. That same half-casual, half-calculated look on her face–eyebrows lifted, mouth curved. Her eyes scanned the room, and Jazz watched her eyes land on him.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Neither did she.

“Evening,” she said, eventually, addressing the room like this was all perfectly normal. Like everything wasn’t falling apart.

Astryd’s voice was clipped. “You’re not welcome here.”

Nellie barely blinked at that. “Not even gonna offer me coffee?”

“You knew the answer before you came,” Madoc added from beside Astryd. “So don’t act surprised.”

“I’m not,” she quipped right back. “I came for her.”

Ironhide, who was not the only one angered by the situation, stepped forward from the hallway, his glare sharp enough to flay. “You got business, you clear it through all of us,” he rumbled. “Not just her.”

They all knew where to place their blame and were gonna do what they could to protect her–but what they had yet to come to terms with is that this was not their world and there was little they could change without the time they needed.They hadn’t had all the pieces fast enough, nor had they arrived soon enough.

“Good to see you too, Red.”

Jazz rolled his servo with exaggerated patience. “Nellie.”

She looked over at him. In fact, everyone did. “Jazz.”

He lifted his servo from the countertop and gestured. “C’mere.”

She hesitated for only a moment before reinforcing that confidence she walked in with, moving forward, one step at a time.

“You look good,” Nellie said. “For a toy.”

“Yeah, well,” Jazz muttered, “I’ve got a pretty view.”

Her smile twitched, strained. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” he answered plainly. “With Optimus.”

Nellie glanced toward the staircase like she expected to see her appear any second. “I figured she’d already be ready.”

“She is.”

“So why the meeting?You planning to talk me out of it?”

“I want to talk to you.” Jazz’s voice dropped just enough to change the air, and only those who truly knew him knew of his barely contained restraint in the way he spoke and the way his armor tightened.

She stilled slightly, one hand brushing her coat sleeve.

Yet he leaned forward, optics never leaving her, narrowing beneath his visor seriously. “You convinced her this was the right thing to do.”

“I helped her see the truth.”

“You pushed her.”

“I supported her,” Nellie corrected as if it would make it true, though it was possible she believed herself to be so. “She needed someone who believed in her.”

“You believed in your version of her,” Jazz countered, having no shame in calling out what he had been piecing together since the first time Nellie walked through that door. “Not who she is.”

Nellie tilted her head as if daring him to continue implying what he was. “Don’t act like you know her better than I do.” She was her best friend after all, right?

“You’ve known her longer. That doesn’t mean better.”

That had struck a nerve.

Nellie exhaled, still light and steady, but more measured now. “I’ve seen her fight through more pain than you can imagine.”

“And now you want her to carry more.”

“She’s not weak. She’s not afraid. And she’s done losing people without doing anything about it. I didn’t manipulate her. I gave her purpose.”

“You gave her your purpose,” he snapped back, uncaring of all the optics and eyes on them in the room.

Her eyes narrowed at the small mech. “What are you saying?”

“That you’re not doing this for her. You’re doing it for you. You’ve been in her ear since the day she got her breath back.” A poke at something only he and Nellie knew in this room, and it had landed.

“She needed someone in her ear. Someone who wasn’t gonna treat her like she was fragile.”

“Girl ain’t fragile,” Jazz reminded her sharply, leaning forward now with a dangerous tone “But she is kind and she’s gentle. And you–” his visor dimmed “--you keep tryin’ to turn that into weakness.”

“She’s angry, Jazz,” Nellie tried as if that was an excuse to be blind to it. “You think she’s not? You think that grief don’t sit in her chest like stone? I’m just givin’ her somethin’ to do with it.”

Sideswipe stepped forward from the archway, arms folded. “Funny how you act like all this is about Rhea, when you’re the one makin’ it about you.”

“Don’t talk to me about ego,” Nellie shot back, barely shooting a glance his way. “You and your brother treat half this house like a playground.”

“Least we ain’t recruiting grieving femmes for a war,” Sunstreaker cut in flatly.

“No, that was just the rest of your leaders at the beginning of your war.”

The Seekers, amidst this argument, had shared an intentional look, watching quietly. Even Barricade and Soundwave lingered, not much to add but registering everything quite thoughtfully. Looks like that shared a thousand words.

“Alright,” Madoc cut in, “Enough.”

But Jazz’s visor hadn’t left Nellie’s. He leaned in just a bit more, telling her, trying to reach her, even, “You care ‘bout her, I know that, but this ain’t love. This ain’t protectin’ her. You’re feedin’ her story back to her so you don’t gotta change yours.”

Her jaw twitched. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I know when someone’s fightin’ ghosts that ain’t theirs.”

Nellie’s smile was gone now, and the entire conversation had already made the room tightened, the angry silence just adding to it.

“You want her angry,” he continued, lacking the restraint to stop while caught up in his own frustration with the girl, “because you don’t know how to mourn without violence. You want her to fight because you never stopped. You want her to hurt because you don’t want to be alone in yours.” He had to make sure she heard these words. He had to make sure she knew this wasn’t right, and hoped maybe, just maybe, the outcome would change.

“She’s not a soldier, Nellie,” Jazz finished. “You know that.”

“She said yes.” It was a weak defense.

“You didn’t give her space to say no.”

Nellie merely crossed her arms. “She made her choice, and whether you like it or not, that’s not yours to undo.”

Jazz’s visor dimmed, field flickering dangerously and so heavy it made other bots nearby step back. “And whether youadmit it or not, that choice was never really hers.”

She didn’t answer him, her face entirely unreadable and forcefully shoving his words away. She decided to turn and walk to the far wall, leaning against it like she hadn’t just lit a fuse in the middle of the room.

Jazz stayed on the counter, glaring at her beneath his visor as, upstairs, Rhea got ready to leave.

---

Rhea sat on the edge of her bed, packing slowly, methodically.

There was no panic in the way she moved, just purpose. It was the kind of rhythm people fall into when they’ve already made peace with their choice but hoped it would last if they moved a bit slower.

She folded a shirt with quiet care, slid it into her duffel, and didn’t look up when she said to her spectators practically guarding her exit, “I won’t be here when you leave. And Ratchet, I’m assuming you remember what I told you about what to do with the kids.”

Ratchet stood with his arms crossed tight, his frown buried deep into his scuffed faceplates. Wheeljack sat on the desk chair, hunched slightly, elbow braced against one thigh, servo rubbing his chin with uneasy tension. And Optimus stood nearest to her and slightly in front of Ratchet, still and luckily for all of them, still small, blue optics dim and watching. Even if he was still figure-size, it didn’t dim his presence in any way.

She kept her eyes on her bag to avoid their gazes, knowing how easily she caved when it came to those she cared about.

She failed to realize the irony of avoiding it with them but falling into the snake’s grasp instead.

“I’m heading to the Talos barracks tonight. They need help pushing back the front. I’m not officially called for two days, but… it’s better this way.”

The pause that followed wasn’t silence, it was resistance, and it filled the air like pressure.

Optimus’s voice was as unwavering as ever. “I ask you reconsider your decision to leave.”

“I’ve already considered it, Optimus.” She reached for her boots, but before that, pulled a pair of plain black socks from the bed. They weren’t her usual ones. No pastel stripes. No mismatched patterns or cartoon cats. Just black and boring…

She slipped them on slowly, smoothing them over her ankles like armor as Wheeljack tried this time. “You don’t owe anyone this. The kids need you more than war, so you should stay..”

“Madoc and Astryd have it handled.” She picked up her brush and began pulling it through her hair in slow, steady strokes.

Ratchet scowled. “This is ridiculous. You’ve barely recovered from the neural surge. Not to mention you’re seriously sleep deprived. You need rest, not a combat frame.”

“I’m not going into the front line,” she said as if that made it better. She was tired, in more ways than one, but this was war.

“You think the front’s gonna wait for you to be ready?” he snapped. “You think it cares who you are?”

“Ratchet,” Optimus scolded firmly, but the medic wasn’t done.

“You’re doin’ this because you feel guilty, not because it’s smart. You think putting yourself in the crosshairs is gonna fix what happened?”

Her hands paused. Leave it to him to give you brutal honesty.

But she quickly fell back into motion, arguing right back, “I’m doing this to keep them safe.”

She glanced at Optimus now, meeting his gaze directly. “You said you guys weren’t leaving until we were safe,” she murmured, referring to her and the kids. She was only concerned with the kids. “Well… this is how I do that.”

Ratchet made a noise like a scoff, but she didn’t look away from Optimus.

“I’m sure Jazz already told you. They only found us because of those spark signatures from you guys and the ones now radiating from us. Which means it’s only a matter of time before they find the rest of you. Before they find them.” Her eyes flicked to the floor, her voice wavering slightly. “The kids deserve peace. So if I can buy time for you guys to get them out of here, just a little, it’s worth it.”

“There are other ways to protect them.”

“No, not anymore.”

She shoved a zip-up into the duffel and then snapped the bag closed, still avoiding their gazes.

Even as Wheeljack leaned forward, servos clasped, “Rhea… You don’t have to do this because Nellie told you to."

“She needs me.”

“You don’t owe her anything.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” But they didn’t know about everything. Only Jazz did. So it was easier to use the excuse, “She’s without a co-pilot. They’re pulling Talos from every barrack and she’s an irrepressible asset. She needs her co-pilot, and you can only drift under certain circumstances.” They didn’t have any details on how this worked, but she wasn’t about to explain it.

She laughed faintly, though it wasn't a happy sound. “So the least I can do is help.”

“This isn’t helping,” Ratchet growled.

Rhea’s silence was her answer as she pulled the strap of the bag over her shoulder and took one last glance around the room, as if memorizing it.

Optimus stepped forward, his shadow cutting long across the carpet.

“We cannot stop you,” he told her gently. “But I am asking you, don’t go like this. We can find an alternative solution that does not involve the sacrifice of your well-being.”

She looked at him, really looked, and for a second, her whole face cracked.

Then she smiled, soft and sad, because she wasn’t the only one who knew that wasn’t in her nature. She’d let those she cared about walk across her back and leave her trapped in the mud if it meant they were safe.

“Thank you,” she whispered instead of giving them more of a reason for her departure, knowing this was her last chance to say it. “For everything.” They’d be gone by the time she came back from this mission.

Wheeljack stood slowly. “Rhea–”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what this place would’ve been without you. Without any of you. And the kids–” her breath caught, “they had something real because of you. So did I.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Ratchet told her harshly, but she ignored him once more.

“I am grateful. And I trust you will take care of things while I’m gone.” Then she walked past them, squeezing past a frowning, grumpy Ratchet, and right down the hall before they could stop her

Rhea descended the stairs with her bag slung over one shoulder and her eyes fixed ahead.

Nellie was near the door again, leaning against the frame with the same cool, unbothered poise she always wore, but she had straightened when she heard Rhea’s steps.

“You ready?” Nellie asked, like nothing had happened. As if there hadn’t been a confrontation and she hadn’t set fire to the entire room upstairs and walked out smiling because she had her anchor in her grasp, even if it meant holding her underwater.

“I’m saying goodbye,” Rhea murmured, aiming to make this quick.

The girl moved through the room with care, giving quick, polite goodbyes to all the bots–Autobots and Decepticons. A touch to Madoc’s shoulder. A short word to Astryd. She was moving fast not because she was in a hurry, but because if she slowed down, she'd turn back. And she knew it.

She was music folding itself down to one final note.

And he knew it long before her eyes found him last.

He hadn’t moved from the counter, just standing there utterly still, but every line of him was drawn tight with something that wouldn’t be said. Rather, couldn’t be.

And for a moment, just one, everything held still.

She could feel the weight of what he wanted to say. It radiated off him like heat as his field flickered, stretching out toward hers like he could reach her with something that wasn’t physical.

She came to the edge of the counter, close enough that her eyes aligned with his optics, and the space between them felt like the hollow of a missing chord.

Jazz didn’t reach for her… He didn’t need to.

They were already connected in that strange, invisible way that only happens when two people shouldn’t have met but did anyway. Like parallel lines crossing once, inexplicably, because someone dropped a beat in the cosmic rhythm.

Her breath trembled.

His visor stayed steady, soaking in what had grown to be his favorite song, her melody humming throughout her field, before his voice came out for her to hear, almost pleading, like she might change her mind, “You ain’t gotta do this, Rhea.”

She looked at him, and there it was–grief, pressed so tight behind her eyes it barely dared to move. “I do.”

He shook his helm slowly as he glanced toward the door where Nellie stood waiting.

She had already sunk her fangs in long before they got there, feeding her poison like it was life-sustaining. And he was powerless to stop it now, as hard as he tried.

There wasn’t anything else to say that wouldn’t snap the invisible string tethering them together, two pieces from separate lines burned together in a fate never supposed to happen this way.

So she did what she could, rested her bigger forehead against his gently, just for a moment as if to soak in his presence in the same way.

The air between them was thick with everything they couldn’t be.

Jazz didn’t speak, but if she listened, maybe she’d hear it the same way he had found her melody–that quiet hum inside him that had always tuned itself to her, like a low harmony under everything. The music of what could’ve been. The riff that never got to play out.

“I’ll see you,” she whispered just loud enough for him to hear.

He couldn’t help himself. Even with others watching, he couldn’t find it in himself to care as he lifted a servo like he might touch her cheek, but it hung midair. That was when he decided to bring it to his chassis, over his spark, repeating what he had seen in the absence of what he truly wanted to do, offering her his open servo.

Her eyes turned glossy, visibly fighting back tears at the action.

Because he needed her right now and this moment, more than ever. And if he wasn't still as small as he was, they're be nothing stopping him from holding her tight.

He could make it right if he could hold her back, give her the hug she deserved and tell her till she believed it that it was okay if she didn't know what to do, or that she was lost in the dark... as long as he was there to to listen to that melody, even if it meant until the end of the line. At least she wouldn't be alone. 

Rhea hated being alone, Jazz knew. 

And just like that, she turned toward Nellie and they turned toward the door, casting a shadow on him that physically pressed down the sparks that buzzed whenever their fields met, something unspoken in the universe they didn't quite have all the answers to. 

Jazz stood frozen, optics locked on her back.

He wished he could wrap his arms around her right now, hold her there so she couldn’t leave...

But he… he wasn’t big enough to stop a song already set to end.

The door opened and shut, a melody cut short, mid-note. The snap of their invisible string, leaving only knowing of what had gone wrong with the inability to stop it to remain.

He was still standing there long after the echo of her footsteps had faded, arms at his sides, visor dim.

The counter beneath him was cold, but the silence was louder than any goodbye. 

For what they didn't know is that the riff that was them in every reality, had been altered so greatly in this knowing. Never before had Jazz seen what caused the record to scratch. 

They were so lost in trying to find their rhythm in their reality, they hadn't even noticed it was out of sync from the stuttering melodies in what was the multi-verse. 

They were too busying still dancing to a song already ending, unknowing that somehwere in the static the music had tuned. 

Forever's gonna start tonight.

But first, the needle would have to rise, the silence would have to stretch in the time it took to set things back how they should be, and only then could the song begin again—all so they might get that dance without a single scratch or skip interrupting. 

Notes:

I lied... ONE more chapter before the next arc because I got carried away in this chapter and was already at 11,000 words... Whoops!
Anyway, wrote this to an edit of timebomb to the song total eclipse of the heart, if you can't tell. (Jazz and Rhea were written in inspiration of time-bomb because i'm so obsessed omg)

Chapter 15: She's Got A Way

Summary:

"Y'oughta breathe, darlin'."

"Valkyrie Sin report to Bay 06. Decepticon attack on the front."

"Rhea, wake up!"

Her eyes snapped open, alert but fuzzy as she gathered her bearing in the now flashing red lighting followed by the automatic lights.

But what really woke her up was the blanket being ripped off of her as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"We're being deployed. Real deal now. Better be ready."

She was not, but she wasn't about to admit that out loud.

Instead, she slowly rose out of bed, tension in her shoulders as her personal alarm clock was already tugging off her camo pants and replacing them with the skin-tight ones of their uniform.

"Remember. It's just like our training and field tests,"

Rhea was half-listening, busy stretching her arms above her head–the loud pop of her shoulders a little too loud. She blamed the plastic, thin mattress she was given.

"Only we will actually be kicking Con aft for real."

She chose to ignore the confidence and suffer internally with how much she was a nervous wreck.

"What time is it, Nellie?" she asked instead.

"Three."

"AM?"

"Yup."

She knew what that meant, but she shoved the thought of him away.

She missed him...

Nellie was already suited up, tucking her dog tags into the matching, skin-tight, long-sleeve top while Rhea trudged over to the bathroom.

There were two heavy knocks on the door, someone telling them to hurry up.

With nothing but a closed door between them and whoever was on the other side, she didn't mind flipping them off for rushing her. Nellie laughed, throwing the younger girl's clothes in her direction which she lazily caught.

They suited up quickly, traveling the halls to their respective bay side by side.

One radiant with confidence, immediately called out as they entered the loading dock, "Lets kick some Decepticon aft!"

The other was silent, not outwardly showing that she was anxiety-ridden as she wore nothing but a straight face.

Those working on the deck began to secure the girls in their suits made of fabric, urethane, rubber, synaptic processor mesh, and harvested metal from fallen Cybertronian that was damn near impossible to break. It was stronger than any of Earth's material, so it only made sense to make Drivesuits with it.

She felt them snap armor to her back, then her chest, working on snapping her into the parts for her abdomen and legs as she gently lifted foot by foot for each piece to slip into.

Along with the chatter in the room, the buzzing of machines drilling in the suit, snapping on the arm gear, and shoulder-plating, was deafening. In a good way. Best she not be left alone with her thoughts or she might turn tail and run out of here.

She couldn't. Nellie needed her here, and she'd do anything for her.

Shivers ran down her spine as the spinal cord was locked onto the back of the suit, nearly completing the circuitry suit that allowed the connection with the Talos and their human nervous system.

And Rhea couldn't help but wonder what they were doing back at home.

The bots were gone by now, and it made an ache swell in her chest.

She buried her anxiety underneath this foreign armor as the helmet she was quickly handed, her thumb tracing over the hints of red adorned on the purple plating.

Matched their Talos.

Rhea slipped the helmet over her head, watching as the blue goo in the mask seeped down the moment the airlock sealed, traveling through the suit's circuitry–not that she could feel that.

The pit in her stomach grew deeper as they entered the helm of the Talos that served as a cockpit, the hum of machinery whirring to life as the two motion rigs lowered down.

Her eyes stared down at her feet as she gently stepped over the gap in the floor and secured her feet into their locks.

It's just like the field test. It's just like the field test.

The motion rigged locked to her back, also securing itself around her right arm, which made her imperceptibly jump.

Blame the nerves. They made her jumpy.

"Y'oughta breathe, darlin'." A familiar voice said over the comm.

Rhea's heart stuttered, breath catching halfway through her ribs. She almost thought she imagined it if it weren't for the shocked look Nellie was wearing as her head snapped toward Rhea.

"..Jazz?" she whispered in disbelief, feeling like her knees were gonna give under the weight of it. The relief hit so hard it made her nauseous. Guilt bloomed in her chest, guilt for hoping they'd left, for wanting them gone if it meant they'd be safe. But relief barreled through her just as hard. He was still here. They were still here.

And she didn't have time to ask why.

The comm buzzed again, letting her hear that steady, anchored voice she had strangely grown so accustomed to, that gentle accent easing the nerves swelling in her body. "Ain't got time for panic now. Just listen. We're in. I found a way to the direct line with the Talos to monitor both you and your surroundings through its sensors and feeds. Stay sharp. We're here to help you get through this."

Multiple voices she recognized at different Autobots chimed into Jazz's open line.

"We're here, Rhea!"

"You got this."

"Don't do something stupid, fleshie." Sunstreaker, no doubt.

All she could give was a subtle nod, forgetting for a moment that none of them could actually see her.

They were still here.

He was still here.

Just as the thought barely finished, the firm voice they knew as their commanding officer suddenly spoke on a separate comm, "Who the hell are you talking to, soldier?"

Rhea panicked for a moment, realizing that he couldn't hear the Autobots because of whatever Jazz had done to hide their presence in the systems,

Then she realized, that was the perfect excuse. Just seem a bit crazy, she supposed. That usually worked. "Uh, to myself, sir."

Nellie gave an odd look but nodded, "A... pep talk."

There was a beat of silence.

"Engage drop." Thankfully he chose to ignore the girls and just continue with the mission.

"Valkyrie Sin, reading for the drop." Nellie announced once their entire system was online, followed by the hiss of locks unsnapping from the bay.

The nervous pit in her stomach turned to butterflies as they free-fell for a few moments, clenching her fists together hard.

"Here we go!" Nellie whooped right before the brakes slowed their descent. Yay...

---

Jazz stood alone near the wall, backlit by the flickering glow of the holo-display projected from his forearm. Thin lines of code and bio-readings scrolled upward–pulse, audio waveform, comm frequencies, external temp. He flicked his wrist and sent packets of data silently to Prowl, to Elita, to Optimus's private secure channel.

"Pilot to Pilot connection protocol sequence engaged." They could hear everything on their end.

He adjusted the comm's clarity again, his voice quiet and steady as he worked while keeping his attention on her. "You're not alone. We got you."

He watched the feedback telling him that the Talos she was in was brought outside the base and was lifted by planes, delivering them and many other Talos to the battlefield.

"Prepare for neural handshake. Starting in 15... 14... 13..."

Around him inside the "base" they had claimed in her home, the others barely moved or spoke. Everybody just listened, either entirely still or fidgety, but locked in with a certain focus they knew from experience in their war.

They heard as Rhea forced herself to take a steady breath. "Right hemisphere, calibrating."

Nellie followed, "Left hemisphere, calibrating."

"Talos Three is down. Four is flanking Dreadlock. Valkyrie Sin approaching combat."

He watched as they entered the battlefield, optics flicking to her vitals he had a direct line at accessing upon their Talo systems. As they prepared themselves, he filtered through seven improvised signal jumps and an overclocked relay chip he shouldn't have been able to reprogram.

But her voice drew him back to reality. "...Skywarp," she whispered through the comm. Her voice cracked, not from weakness, but the kind of fear you don't name out loud.

Jazz's optics narrowed, taking a moment to glance at the closed door of their base knowing the alternate mech was outside while this reality's version of him fought.

The reading on her HUD jumped, snapping his optics right back.

"I think we're the next target." Rhea noted out loud, referring to Skywarp and whatever was going on that was causing all these alerts to flood the Talos feed that Jazz was receiving.

"No shit," Nellie snapped back, several of the Autobots sharing a tense look of annoyance.

They watched, merely spectators as Nellie's half of the Talos was clearly locked in close combat with a ground-based Decepticon, clawing and ramming against their shielding. Every ping and alert indicated this, and they felt surprisingly helpless.

"I need you on Skywarp, he's killing out air cover!"

But Rhea hadn't said anything, and Jazz was quickly trying to silence the other comms in their ears begging for backup and other noise that was making her breath go ragged. It was one less thing to worry about on a literal battlefield.

"You'll have to do it," Nellie growled. "I'm a bit occupied."

"She's losing her focus." Elita observed from where she and Optimus stood, watching on their own data pad.

"I've got 'er."

He leaned in slightly, digits ghosting the interface, catching every stutter in her breath. The Talos she piloted stumbled and readouts spiked, everything happening rattling the feed. Her scream didn't come, but the breath afterward?

He felt it like it was his own vent out.

"Come on, come on, don't freeze now..." he whispered under his breath, more so to himself than anything, for he knew what freezing in battle would mean.

Then louder, through the comm so she'd hear him through the blur of panic and rush of adrenaline. "You ain't alone, Rhea. Ya hear me?"

There was no response, just Nellie barking orders and other combat chatter.

"She's drifting," Prowl observed tactically beside him, voice tight.

"Don't need commentary," Jazz spat out, but it lacked any genuine bite. He was just stressed and was in a certain mode that came only with such intense, war-driven situations.

The vitals were too fast–breath, pulse, everything spiking. Her side of the Talos was slipping out of sync as she hesitated, and he could hear her shaking through the readout hum, the creaking strain of her grip.

"I... I'm not ready..."

Jazz's digits flew across the interface, the blue flicker of the holo warping slightly as he overrode the data stream, moving on pure instinct.

He tapped into the Talos' audio loop and overlaid a new subchannel in his quick thinking.

Something old... Something familiar.

Smooth static filled their comm, and then the light thrum of a piano came like a voice through smoke.

"You're feeding her music?" Sunstreaker whispered with a pinched-up expression, wondering if he was really seriousabout this. In fact, multiple bots shared a look at this random idea.

"Quiet." Jazz demanded without looking up as he watched her vitals.

And thankfully, Optimus agreed with him. "Line stays clear unless you're directly supporting. Let them focus."

And so, the room stilled again as the song played on.

It was just a thread of melody curling through her cockpit, that same song she had made him pause and listen to not too long ago, but something changed in the readout immediately.

Her pulse stuttered... then steadied.

One long inhale.

One second more.

She spoke again as something roared faintly in the back, the feedback signaling there had been a direct launch from her hemisphere of the Talos. "I hit him."

Jazz closed his optics for half a second.

"You got him," Nellie said with a proud tone, as if the girl didn't just pull the trigger on a living being. "You brought down a flier on your first try. Not bad for a softie." Rhea gave a weak laugh in response.

They listened on, watching closely over shoulders at the data bads and listening so carefully to what was going on.

Then, something changed.

"She just knelt the Talos... Why?" Bluestreak observed out loud for those who might've missed it in the room since not all of them could see the few data pads, sharing the confusion of the others.

"Heat sensors are picking up–"

"There's a child. She's right there–she must've been missed during evac."

The room froze, energon running cold.

Fresh wounds never boarded over quite well, they knew.

And it was why they were surprised by the sudden argument between the two girls.

"No, the area's supposed to be cleared–"

"She's right there!"

"We are literally face to face with Barricade right now. We don't have time–"

"We make time!"

Jazz was proud of her, really. Proud of her for not backing down and helping that little girl, shouting at her to run when she helped bridge an escape.

But that brief feeling was shattered as there was a sudden scream from Nellie right as the HUDs blared alarms at them, "Brace! He's going for the–"

Through the comms, it was only metal then.

The shriek of steel being torn open.

The rush of wet wind crashing in.

Jazz's processor staggered beneath the sound, that horrible pitch–cockpit seal compromised. She wasn't behind armor anymore. She was in the storm.

His optics widened, digits flying across the projection on his arm.

The sensor data spiked, then warped.

Her Talos' signature twisted sideways, like the sky had folded wrong, and the power levels crashed. The entire feed began bleeding fast across his forearm, a smear of dying code.

He tried to stabilize it and tried to pull her signal back through. "Come on, come on..." He spoke to the ghosts in the wires. "Just one more klik."

Her name hovered on his dermas, but then came a scream that didn't sound like Nellie at all.

It was hers.

Rhea's voice, sharp and thin and human, shot through the comms like it was the last living thing inside her.

The waveform convulsed.

Then it was gone.

Just like that, the entire feed blinked out.

No vitals. No heartbeat. No sync. No music.

No Rhea.

Jazz stood there, still bracing like the next wave was going to hit, but nothing did.

There was only silence.

His vents stuttered painfully, and he found himself sharing the same dislike for it as her.

Jazz leaned forward, desperate now, swiping the dead data back into view, trying to revive the dead line that didn't exist anymore as static scattered across his interface like ashes across light.

Behind him, no one moved.

It wasn't that they didn't know what had happened. It was that they did, but sometimes a silence said more than words ever could. It was like watching as a sun disappeared below the horizon, and you soaked in the last of its warmth before it left you in the dark. You didn't need to say so aloud to know this, but it sure helped when in denial.

He kept trying to get that feedback, ignoring the fact that the day had turned to night. The sun was gone, like warmth in a room that hasn't realized it's cold yet.

And Jazz still stood in it, shivering in his frame but not letting it show.

He desperately worked at that blank screen with furious intent, trying so hard–until a servo touched his shoulder.

Prowl, he realized.

It was a single pressure, firm and silent in the way you'd press your servo to someone who hasn't yet fallen apart but needed them to pay attention, to come back to reality.

Jazz's arm lowered, no longer trying again.

Because somewhere inside him, he knew, but that hadn't stopped him from clinging to the last warmth of the day.

For it was hard not to be blinded by the bridge of light that made one consider what was ending, the memories of the day as good or bad as it may have been, and mourn or celebrate the day's departure.

Rhea had not been the reason the night came, or why it was so cold now, or that the sun had fallen at all.

The sun falls because the world turns, driven by forces out of their control.

And there was something to say about a person who could make you see the beauty of it all even when she couldn't quite admire her artistry herself.

Cause as sure as the sun fell, she had a way of giving them hope as they all plummeted in the dark.

She had a way, indeed. More than they could know.

---

It had been a few days since the feed cut and they had heard nothing.

The house was quieter than silence had any right to be.

Right now, Madoc and Astryd were asleep upstairs, curled around grief they hadn't named yet. The youngling–Primus, the youngling–were tucked close, unaware that the world they'd been handed was already folding in on itself.

Downstairs, the rest of them sat in the dark.

Some seated. Some standing. Some, like him, just stuck somewhere in between.

Jazz had gone through the growth transformation not long after Rhea disappeared.

It happened hours after the feed dropped, hours too late. The irony of it didn't need to be said.

Around him, the others murmured–Autobots, Decepticons alike, joined in the aftermath like wreckage swept to the same shore.

"What do we do now?" someone muttered.

"She told us to leave with the younglings, do we–"

"Well, we can't leave them. They're radiating our spark signatures. They're a risk."

"Would they be even better in our world?"

"Rhea isn't here for them, so it's the least we co–"

They were talking logistics, the hows and whys, especially in how to tell the kids. Whether they even should.

But the words kept falling like rain off steel.

At least, until the front door opened.

They watched Nellie walk in, dressed in simple clothes yet her eyes were red, raw, and rimmed like she hadn't slept.

"She's gone."

Silence swallowed the room whole at her sharp tone, and the fact itself. They had been coming to terms with that.

Elita stood slowly, being the first to acknowledge her aloud. "We know."

"Then why are you still here?" Her tone didn't carry hatred. It didn't need to. It was a tone for facts, or for finishing someone else's sentence before it finished you.

Optimus stepped forward, voice calm but measured. "Given the circumstances... we didn't feel it was right to leave."

"She's gone," Nellie repeated as if they hadn't heard the first time. As if they hadn't listened to the whole thing. "So what exactly are you here for?"

No one answered, because what answer could there be?

Her hands clenched, face remaining blank, yet her voice cracked at the edges like frost. "She's not coming back."

Thundercracker's voice, low from the side, was the first to bite back. "You think we don't know that?" He was losing his patience along with everybody else.

Nellie turned toward him, eyes blazing, lips shaking. "Then leave!" she hissed. "All of you! You don't belong here!"

No one moved.

Because they did belong here even if it was not necessarily their reality and they couldn't stay. But because this is where she'd been. This was where her voice echoed in the floorboards. Where her warmth had filled the cracks between beings that didn't belong anywhere else. And she had welcomed them here with open arms, letting them stay as long as they liked and needed.

Nellie couldn't stand it right now.

"You think standing here makes it better? You think standing here means anything?! She's dead! And you're all still–still here! Like she's gonna walk through that door or pick up that comm and–" Her breath snapped in half. "She's not."

No one could stop her now.

"Get OUT!"

When they didn't move, Nellie couldn't help but take out her frustrations on her surroundings, shoving a chair out of her way and knocking the nearest item to the floor.

"Rhea is gone!" she screamed, charging into the middle of them like they'd lit the match. "She's dead and she's not coming back so just–just leave!"

They ducked, sidestepped, tried to speak, but it was too late to stop the rage now or to turn back time.

Tears tore down her face now in streaks, wetting her collarbone as she wheezed, lungs folding under the weight of fury and grief. She kept screaming, breaking down, dragging air into her chest like it might fill the hollow that had caved in when Rhea was ripped from her side.

Regardless of faults, everybody knew she loved Rhea greatly. Even if some of them didn't believe she had the right to grieve for her, it didn't make it any less true.

Optimus stepped forward, his voice even but not cold. "Okay."

Wheeljack, quiet all this time, turned to the side console and began working to activate the ground bridge upon Optimus's order.

"What's goin' on?" A voice said sleepily from the top of the stairs, and they all turned to see the kids in their pajamas peeking down.

Their respective guardians rushed upstairs while the rest of the room seemed to prepare for their unexpected departure.

Jazz climbed the stairs after them, but kept moving down the hall when they disappeared into the twins' room while he slid into Rhea's.

He didn't look around or let his optics linger on anything that was left untouched, last moved by Rhea herself. He stepped across the threshold, careful not to breathe like it might break something.

He went straight to the desk, servo tugging open the drawer only to snatch the one item he needed before leaving. Themusic box.

He paused. Just for a second long enough to remember the memories that came from her stories, and the memories inside she had shared with him.

He didn't open it, but just slid it into his subspace and turned away.

Back downstairs, the house had thinned to movement and footsteps. Bots and humans alike were heading for the portal as it hummed to life. Lights in the house flickered in and out, indicating they only had so much time to go through.

Bumblebee had Cora, curled tight in his arms, her owl pajamas twisted in his grip. Bluestreak carried Calix, blinking blearily and with his head resting on the mech's shoulder. Madoc held Jaxon, one arm braced around the boy's ribs, Chromia and Ironhide flanking them like shadows.

Astryd moved fast, directing, grabbing bags that had already been half-packed.

Cora mumbled, half-asleep. "Where are we going...?"

Bumblebee hummed quietly. "We're going to show you our base. That okay?"

"Yeah, but why right now?"

"Because... they need us back."

None of them said the truth, at least not the whole thing. Right now wasn't the time for it.

Jazz glanced over at Wheeljack as the Decepticons stepped through first, disappearing into the frame glowing and swirling with an array of blues and greens. He was explaining to a still teary-eyed Nellie how to close it once they were through, pointing out all the mechanisms.

One by one, they passed.

Jazz waited for his turn, taking his time in watching the house, taking in surroundings he'd never see again, or rather remembering his months there before everything got flipped upside down.

It felt weird to see it in this size, and it sure felt a whole lot smaller.

But he wasn't seeing size differences as he scanned the place. He was seeing the lot of them huddled around the couch and floor with the kids watching the Lion King. He was seeing the coffee table where Rhea never really sat with her constant busy movement but had always left a dozen empty coffee mugs. He was seeing the doorway to the kitchen where Sideswipe had blocked her with theatrical singing. He was seeing the night she and him curled up and watched her dance videos and she colored with Sunstreaker.

It felt so surreal by now, and he almost couldn't believe that they were leaving. That she was not there to fill the silence in the house that had been so quiet in her absence.

Perhaps that was why she didn't mind all the chaos, because then at least no one was alone.

Then he looked back as his turn to walk through came.

Nellie stood by the mechanisms of the machine, and he could see the tear that clung to her chin, glistening as the lights flickered on and off. Her hands were still trembling and her chest still shuddered, but her face remained blank.

Jazz met her gaze as he began to step forward, and for a beat, just one, he swore her eyes weren't just red from crying. There was something else there as they connected their gazes in passing, not needing a goodbye between them other than a passing glance.

Her brown eyes sparked a certain crimson in the lighting, like the heat that lingers after the sun's gone.

It was much like a spark refusing to dim.

But Jazz did not linger on this, and he stepped through the light that lacked the warmth he was craving.

But maybe, someday, when the dark wasn't so cruel, one might find the sun in the cold and pull, pull, and pull so it might want to rise again.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they stood in the afterglow she left behind as they returned to their reality where the shadows chased them.

Behind them, Nellie kept staring at the light, long after it had closed with her hand lingering on the mechanisms.

 

EXITING UNIVERSE-555... 

>> SYSTEM NOTICE: DEPARTURE CONFIRMED

>> SYNC ERROR: SIGNATURE MISMATCH DETECTED

>> RETURN COORDINATES ACCEPTED

>> DATA VARIANCE DETECTED

>> ANOMALY FLAGGED: ORIGIN TRACE UNRESOLVED

// STANDBY.

Notes:

No, this is not the end. This is acttually only the first half so yay! Who's ready for TFP!?

Oh yeah! I don't know how to do images on ao3, but I cross-post this on wattpad (cause even if I don't like wattpad as much anymore and have grown out of it, i will not abandon my lovely audience over there LMAO.) But I will say over there, I have more fun with visuals... so if you want to know waht the characters look like I gave some character picture boards at the end of this chapter on Wattpad (and into the arc intro(s)

But if that is an endeavor, everything is on my pinterest Alteration board! @ mikmerakii :)

Chapter 16: She Got Away

Summary:

"Did you just throw the gun?"

U N I V E R S E : N O N E

I 've been here before.

She could've sworn she...

But that's impossible. This is the first time...

Hm.

There is no edge to this place.

Rhea floats untethered inside the deep hum of everything she once was and everything she might have been, if the world had not bitten so hard at her throat.

Only an endless cradle of velvet hush, where the last breath she once owned has already abandoned her lips.

The hush where a new version of herself floated alone, having fallen from the thread, farther and farther from that phenomena of deja vu from repeated mistakes and the same path weaving the lives of Rhea as one, now drifting in this weird never-ending silence of the unknown.

For a mistake is what brought her here, this infinite realm of potential of being. Both a mistake of her own... and of accidents of others.

But mistakes could lead to the potentially the best or worst opportunities, as they opened doors for one to make a decision that maybe wasn't previously obvious or one they struggled to see.

Rhea merely drifted as if a thought without shape, a pulse without flesh, a flicker of the self she once stitched together from grief and tenderness and iron will. Here, at the mouth of the abyss, she fell from the unspooled thread from the web of fate and abrupt ends, falling further and further from the known as if grasping at the light of a spaceship while endlessly floating away with no way to stop it.

And all around her, the dark hums–low and endless, older than any heartbeat she ever carried in any life. It cradles her bruised soul in its fathomless palm. Within this blackness, her past drips through her like candlewax, fragments blinking like in the dark, a distant echo in a space that wasn't supposed to hold sound.

Toward the thread, it beckoned her like a soft light of comfort, quiet and golden where one could pretend forever was possible.

Icarus and Sorren sleeping curled against her ribs, too small to dream of tragedy.

Her mother's lullabies, humming nonsense words into the soft place behind her ear.

Rowan's stubborn laughter, the defiant curl of his fists even as the world tried to swallow him whole.

Jazz's laughter—bright, reckless, the sound of a sunrise she thought she would never deserve.

Small faces pressed to her hip, calling her name like a promise.

If she perhaps could make it back to the string and find her balance, turning her back from the unknown of the abyss behind her. For she did not belong here.

It was deceiving, really. For the warmth was so tempting and this would be so easy.

Oblivion presses soft lips to the jagged corners of her spirit, offering a hush where life had only carved ache.

She wanted to rest in the happy light becoming her closer, even if it meant an evening-lasting timeline of pain.

She could.

She wants to.

To chase away the blood on her tongue and the fire currently in her lungs from the abrupt cut that sent her spiraling into this dark cradle where time did not move.

She could just grasp that light of knowing and rest while she had the chance.

She almost does.

But then–

There's a tremor in the abyss behind her.

So slight she thinks, at first, it is a flicker of some last living vein.

But it hums again, steady, low, unwavering in a way that makes her turn her attention away from the light.

A note.

A thread.

A song.

It coils out of the hush-like smoke made of warmth, a tone she knows deeper than bone.

She has no ears but she hears it: the rhythm that once danced along her pulse when hands closed over hers in reckless promise.

There was an ache of yearning, like something might be waiting but she could pin what.

And the abyss shifts.

A voice follows the hum that continued, older than any grief she ever named, softer than any mercy she dared want:

Little flame.

Do you wish to rest?

The hum weaves closer, curling through the ruins of her drifting soul.

Not pulling or demanding, just waiting as she stared into the darkness, barely able to make out a thread with edges as frayed as the one she fell from.

Then she looked back to her own, finding a slightly different shade of red, yet the two had clearly been connected at some point, regardless if they had been scorched together from two different tangled paths.

They were never meant to be together anyway, but the distant thread made her ache.

Look at how alone they both were now.

You have carried so much sorrow.

You may rest now, if that is your wish.

But the hum echoed the distance where she could barely see that thread, humming as if begging her to try to stay awake, but would not dare be selfish enough to ask her to choose to burn their threads together if it meant it would hurt if only for a moment. She had already been through so much pain.

And in its selfishness, it did not acknowledge that more awaited other versions of her.

There is a door no other version of you could reach.

Chance left it open.

A single mistake brought you here.

Though it did not clarify who's mistake.

The hum you hear keeps it ajar.

She trembled.

Sleep tastes sweet on her tongue, but the dark ahead tastes like hope she doesn't know how to name as much as it might scare her.

The hum offers her nothing sweet, only a road she does not know how to walk, and a hand she cannot see but still trusts to hold her steady when her feet forget how.

The voice sighs, gentle as dusk.

You do not need to understand yet, and you may not for some time.

But your soul has always known something deeper, and carried something much older than fear.

It will remember when you do not if you choose to follow that melody.

She wondered if it was referencing the hum in the distance, though it never clarified.

What you need will find you when the hour comes.

Hold to your spark, and perhaps, somewhere in the unknown, you will find what has long waited to be mended.

But if the dark ahead asks too much from you, you choose to rest instead.

This choice is yours alone.

She drifted at the seam, light behind her in a soft oblivion where no ache will call her name again, and darkness ahead in a deeper hush, shaped not by sleep but by becoming.

The hum, that stubborn chord, waits within it, asking nothing but her try.

She trembled as the fear curled through the hollow where her heart should be.

She wants to rest.

She wants to wake.

She wants... him.

And the chance to be more than her ending.

The hum wraps her shadows tight, humming: Live. Live. Live.

Not just for me.

For you.

To which she would've perhaps joked back that it was a little bit for them, too.

And she reached... Not for the light that forgives all, or the thread of the knowing fate and relentless deja vu of quick endings, but for the song that found her even here. The mistake she hadn't realized was the one mentioned.

She drifted toward the dark where nothing was promised but the chance of something unknown... The hum kisses the warmth of her soul, light and feathery, and she craves the sound that draws her closer and closer, so distracted by the familiarity and the yearning to hold it close that she hadn't even noticed the flame she lit that scorched their invisible strings back together.

The hush unraveled.

The hum caught her name before it shattered.

And when breath rips through her lungs somewhere far from this grave of stars, she will remember none of this choice, nor the pain that brought her here as it would be what snapped their threads once more.

Only that she chose to step into the unknown because a stubborn song loved her enough to wait in the dark.

---

U N I V E R S E - 1 2 7: 

A L T E R E D

>> THREAD // RHEA-REPLAY // DEPLOYED

>> REALITY STAMP // NONSTANDARD

[~] VARIANCE // WITHIN ACCEPTABLE RANGE

// OVERRIDE FLAG: NOT REQUIRED

 

>> ALTERATION: IN EFFECT

// STANDBY FOR IMPACT...

Darkness clung like cold metal, thin and waiting, pressed tight against every inch of her, like the inside of a locked box.

She didn't breathe.

Not because she was holding her breath, but because she couldn't remember how.

There was... pressure.

Weight?

No.

Something else.

There wasn't pain but the sudden awareness made her head whirl.

Then there was this hum... Like the distant whirring of gears turning in a room far beneath her feet.

Then–

"Laaaaaady."

The voice was high, half a drawl, half a whine. It dripped with amusement and mild irritation, like it had already been trying to get her attention for some time.

"Hello? Lady? You gonna lie there forever? Because you're not exactly inspiring confidence here, and I gotta tell you, you're not in a great spot for a recharge."

She felt as though they slowly peeked open, yet the flutter felt more like a flicker.

She was too distracted to notice as her sight sharpened rather quickly and shapes leapt into clarity. From where she lay on her stomach, her head pressed against the floor sideways, she could see thick cables hanging like vines from a ceiling too far above, broken panels blinking low and failing. It was dark yet there were no dancing specs of dust despite the reeking staleness.

The place looked like the inside of an old, abandoned cathedral.

If cathedrals were carved from machines.

She tried to sit up and was met with a grinding sensation, like plates shifting.

She froze, for a second wondering if that was her bones grinding.

What–

What was that?

She blinked again.

No, not blinking... Her vision adjusted mechanically, sharpening focus. It layered data she didn't ask for over shapes and shadows and cool lines of code flickered and disappeared at the edges of her vision like ghosts.

"Hey, progress! She lives."

The voice rang out, but it felt so internal that she wondered if whoever was in the room was beside her face.

"You figuring it out yet? Because I could offer a few helpful pointers if you'd just stop panicking for two seconds."

Her breath–

No.

She wasn't breathing.

Her mouth moved, but the air didn't feel right. It rasped out of her in a voice she didn't recognize– deeper, smooth in a metallic way.

"Who said that?" Her voice cracked and whirred.

"Let's not get into that just yet. Priorities first. You're in one piece, which, credit where it's due, was not guaranteed."

It seemed that the voice wasn't going to directly answer, but thankfully she had other distractions that drew her focus.

Her field of vision twitched, focusing automatically on details she didn't understand. Everything in this room was too large. Or maybe she was.

The thought sent her into motion.

She braced her hands–

And froze.

Broad, angular fingers jointed in three places caught her vision, metal creaking softly as they moved. Her plating–plating–was deep crimson, scuffed and dulled with dust.

She flexed them slowly to test if they were her fingers, the servos whining quietly beneath her palms.

Her heart leaped, except it didn't.

Something else in her chest pulsed instead, hot and strange, beating like a quiet engine and thrumming like a steady song.

She sat up too quickly this time, feeling the way her body sweaked in disapproval, nearly falling forward again from the heavier feeling weighing her down–but that could've been a mix of a lot of things.

She looked down instantly finding her whole body...

Crimson. All she saw was red.

Red. Sharp-edged. Foreign.

Crimson paint dulled with dirt and scraped to silver in places. Thick metal replaced what was once flesh, elegant but not delicate despite the smooth plating over thick joints, all of it foreign.

Her chest–chassis rose and fell in faint shifts, even though there were no lungs. Her forearms were sleek, lined with faded paneling, joints like coiled pistons.

There, stamped into the curve of her shoulder, dirt-smeared but unmistakable, the Decepticon insignia.

"What?" she breathed. Or thought. Or said... The sound was barely a whisper, static-laced.

She scrambled back on instinct, palms skidding across a steel floor littered with debris. Her movements sent low vibrations across the ground, her weight thundered.

She wasn't human.

She wasn't–

How did this happen?

Her mind or... or–processor? Was that correct now?

Whatever it was, it scrambled to remember how she got here but came up short.

it was crucial she did not remember what had brought her here.

She turned too quickly, a mechanical wince rippling through her frame, only to snap out of her soon-to-be panic attack once her focus locked on a figure slumped just a few feet away from her.

Her breath? Vent?

It slowed to try and silence itself as she inwardly zoomed closer, trying to fathom the still femme slumped before her.

She had sleek armor, pink and black, lightweight with obvious wings she recognized on Seekers on her back. Her frame was beautiful, once, but now half-covered in wires and stained blue right through her her center and splashed around, staining the black in a haunting blue, not to mention she was slumped in unnatural ways. Most hauntingly, were the dark optics staring back at her.

And on her shoulder, mirrored, too clear, the same indigo insignia that was all too familiar.

Rhea swallowed. Or tried to. It came out as a click in her throat as her whole frame trembled, but she didn't know how to stop it.

She turned her head–helm away, staring instead at the floor, at her hands... servos...

Her processor was swimming and static threatened the edges of her thoughts like white noise, like something was trying to break through but couldn't.

Her whole system felt wrong.

Not sick...

Just wrong.

Like her thoughts didn't quite fit the frame that carried them.

"...Am I her?" she asked to... well, whoever this voice was. It hadn't answered her previous question, but who else was she to ask?

It was an odd question, but one that stemmed from confusion, a symbolic echo of fear of this stranger, dead stranger, in front of her. Was she supposed to be dead?

"No," the voice replied, almost gently this time but with enough certainty for her to get the impression they wanted her to know this was fact.

She lowered her gaze to her servo again, staring at them as they shook slightly. It was fascinating to see metal shake like her hands normally did, but then again, she had seen the bots with similar actions–but so many different ones too.

Nothing about this place felt real.

The room stretched endlessly, ribs of steel twisting upward. Consoles dead and lights dead. There was a clear indication of some type of battle here, but whatever it had been, it had been long since over.

"Try not to panic," the voice offered, a touch wry. "I know, easier said than done. But take it from someone who's been stuck with you longer than you have–this is better than the alternative."

She didn't answer.

Her optics dimmed slightly as her systems recalibrated again, intaking too much information and far too fast.

She couldn't figure out how she had gotten here. Why wasn't she back at home?

What about the bots? The kids?

Perhaps she was dreaming?

Maybe she died in her sleep and this was some bizarre afterlife...

She didn't know anything.

"I'm...I don't–what is this?" Her voice hitched. Her optics, she realized that's what they were now, focused hard on the far wall, which looked like it had been melted through in places from gunfire.

The floor beneath her knees was cool, blackened in places, overgrown with rust. This was a Cybertronian structure, but that only made her spiral in wonder of where the hell she was...

She didn't know where she was.

She didn't know what she was–or rather, how she ended up this way... Cybertonian?

Only that she wasn't what she used to be.

And whatever had brought her here... it had left her alone.

Except–

"Hellllooo?"

Everything before this moment felt like water through her digits.

She pressed a servo to her chassis and felt the slow, pulsing rhythm beneath the plating.

She remembered warmth.

She remembered softness.

She remembered someone laughing like music.

Humming...

Why did she remember humming?

How she got here had long since wiped itself from her memory, leaving only this strange voice and a body that wasn't hers.

"...What happened to me?"

The voice didn't answer. Not really.

"You're asking the wrong questions. Try starting smaller."

Her gaze drifted again to the femme.

She looked so sad. Like someone who hadn't known they were about to die but faced it with a frown once she realized.

At least, that was the only story her processor could fabricate right now.

Was she supposed to be here?

Who's frame was she in?

Surely it wasn't her, right?

Something deep in her spark trembled. Not grief, exactly, but something close.

She sat there for a long while, letting the hum of this place fold around her and letting her thoughts, jumbled and strange, flicker and settle.

Something was wrong.

Something was beginning.

And the worst part was... She had no idea who she was beginning as.

And she found out fairly quickly that she had no time right now to consider it because she couldn't stay wherever herewas forever.

She tried again to stand.

The ground didn't shift, but her balance did, a lurching, heavy sway. She staggered, one servo thrown against the wall for support, metal digits scraping against the metal plating. Her optics flared, recalibrating the distance.

Everything was wrong.

Everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time.

"Okay," she muttered hoarsely. "So that's new."

"Hey, look at you. Up and wobbling. Try not to fall on your faceplate, yeah? You don't exactly bounce well anymore."

She didn't get a chance to give something snarky back as a faint sound startled her.

It echoed faintly from one of the branching corridors ahead, deeper into the base. Like metal shifting accompanied by the soft hiss of hydraulics.

Then she noticed the pulse of faint violet light illuminating the far walls.

She crept forward, one heavy step at a time, her pedes sending quiet vibrations through the floor.

She reached the edge of a wide archway, pressed her back to the wall, and slowly peeked around the frame.

Her breath would have caught if she still had breath.

A massive structure stood in the center of the chamber beyond–tall, circular. Thankfully, it was off.

It's a space-bridge, she thought mostly to herself, recognition scraping the back of her mind at the frame Wheeljack had been making in her living room, only this was of a much larger scale.

"Ding ding. You win nothing. Except, y'know, possibly another shot at survival."

"You know, you might be in my head but you're very loud," she hissed quietly.

Her optics focused toward the far side of the chamber where figures stood. Insecticons, she recognized from vaguely paying attention to one of the shows.

Dozens of them, hanging limp like discarded puppets. They looked deactivated, but towering and monstrous nonetheless.

But at the center of them all, moving with deliberate grace, was a mech with a single red optic.

Her optics narrowed as she observed it, wondering who this was and why he was alone... She'd like to assume she could walk up and act like everyone was okay like she'd be able to do with the Decepticons back at him, but he made chills run down her spine. It was enough warning to not jump at that idea.

"Shockwave."

She didn't remember his name, but the voice in her head seemed to know it.

She recognized the name, and past shows, movies, and real-life stories from her own world cycled in her helm.

He was doing something to the bridge's controls when she whispered, "If I have this insignia, then... I'm on the same side, right?"

"That assumes he cares. Which he doesn't. Not when you're basically the dead walking after eons..." So, that answered that. Whoever's body this was had died, and perhaps she had too? How else could she have gotten here?

Her servos clenched.

"We cannot stay here on Cybertron. You're needed on Earth and that groundbridge is a sure way back."

So she was on Cybertron.

The thought was daunting, but she tried not to ponder too much on this. A lot of what was happening was moreimpossible, so she was shoving this new knowledge next to her existential crises for later.

"You're not gonna get far unless we come up with a plan," the voice muttered.

She stared, thinking.

Until her optics landed on a panel to the left, and she glanced back toward the corridor with her frame pressed close to the wall.

"I'm going to do something stupid."

"Oh good. That always works out."

She picked up a piece of rusted debris from the ground–a broken rod of metal–and hurled it across the room. It clanged against the far wall, near a stack of collapsed crates.

Shockwave's head snapped toward the sound.

She bolted as if that wasn't the most "saw-it-in-a-movie-once" thing to do.

Her body screamed in unfamiliar motion, metal joints compressed and released in a rhythm she hadn't mastered.

She could hear Shockwave turning and noticing her, a distorted command leaving his intake. The insecticons stirred at it, and she vaguely recognized the Cybertonian which she found scary to suddenly be able to understand...

The groundbridge loomed as she got closer.

It buzzed like a storm trapped in a circle and the light pulled her forward, wild and unknown.

Her servo reached the console, finding alien control and glyphs she didn't recognize yet could read while in this frame. Unfortunately for her, it didn't come with step-by-step instructions with pictures like gym equipment did. "How does this work?!"

"Think of where you want to go."

That sounded awfully stupid. This was a device...

Her processor blanked at that, having no time to question it but not knowing exactly where to picture on Earth.

Then, a voice, not the one in her helm, but a memory that made her optics shutter closed:

Those islands... they don't got noise, not like Earth's cities do. It's not empty, though. It's full of sound, just quieter ones... like the kinda sound that makes you feel like the world's talkin', just not in a way people usually hear.

The wind rolls through like it knows your designation... the cliffs hum when the waves hit right. Grass bends like it's leanin' in to listen... the fog, it don't close in on you. It wraps around you like a blanket and makes you feel like you belong to the land, just for a while.

"West side of the island. Every sunset. There's this ridge... higher than anything else. Just the stone beneath your pedes and the sky opening wide in front of you.

Her chassis ached at his voice.

What was Jazz doing now? Waiting.

"Got it." The voice snapped her out of her helm, optic opening as it suddenly gave her coordinates and instinct took over.She might as well have been on auto-pilot, typing these coordinates in.

Behind her, mechanical and swift claw clicks and pedesteps made her work faster only for the ground-bridge to whirr to life, humming with violent energy. A swirling vortex shimmered at its core that lit the room in jagged blue and green light.

It was almost beautiful.

She made the mistake of turning to see Shockwave storming toward her from across the room with the now very awake insecticons with him, most bolting ahead.

Her optics widened, wasting no time in turning toward the light of blue and green that lit up her red armor as she sprinted in it.

Shots fired behind her, energy blasts lit the walls, but she didn't stop.

"You need to turn the machine off so they don't keep coming."

She ran backward, reaching to her hip for the small blaster magnetized there. She turned, aimed, fired at the console.

Insecticons leaped forward, following her into the bridge's light right as the blast hit and the portal sparked.

But Rhea was already through, tanks flipping inside of her with nausea she didn't think was possible in this form as the bridge collapsed behind her like a door slamming shut.

She hit the ground hard.

Her frame crashed through the wet grass, tumbling down the slope with a sound like steel striking stone. Each roll sent chunks of dirt flying and sprays of wind-slick moss trailing behind her. Her plates ground and scraped, joints hissed in protest, and still, she kept tumbling until her pedes finally dug in and caught, the cliffside halting her with a jolt that rattled deep into her core.

Everything hurt.

She groaned, slowly dragging herself up onto one knee. The terrain beneath her was uneven, spongy with layered roots and dew-heavy grass. The sea-salt wind whipped across her chassis, cold and stinging, as if even the island itself didn't recognize her. The wind carried the roar of waves far below–the Faroe cliffs she desired to be at, jagged and ancient, yawning wide beneath her. Fog wound between the ridgelines like a second sea, blanketing the world in shifting silver.

She couldn't even take in the beauty because she felt like her limbs were disconnected, as though they belonged to someone else.

Her balance tipped forward with each movement, her plating was scuffed and unfamiliar, and her steps too heavy and uncoordinated.

She stood with effort, only to stagger again. But that could have also been the tumble she had just taken and her first-ever space-bridge experience.

"Okay," she muttered aloud, voice scratchy through static, "legs are working. Sort of."

"Hey, you're upright. That's progress." The voice was back, smooth and sardonic.

"Still in my head," she said hoarsely. "Great." Who and what even was this voice?

"Always."

The groundbridge crackled behind her and she turned just in time to see a few insecticons pour through the collapsing vortex, the ones that had made it through before she had destroyed it, their metal limbs unfolding with an eerie smoothness that didn't match their grotesque frames. Their optics glowed with hostile purpose as they began their approach, each step a soundless threat on the soft earth.

"This can't be real," she whispered, already stumbling backward to get ready to run. Her frame responded sluggishly, servos whining under strain.

"Ya bet it is. Now move, lady."

She bolted... Or tried to.

Her pedes jerked beneath her, too wide and heavy to find sure purchase on the narrow path. She slipped, recovered, and kept going, spark racing.

The cliff trail coiled downward through fog-thick ridges, a narrow vein of dirt lined with sharp drops and loose stones. Every few strides her joints misfired, her posture shifting too far left or right. Her frame hadn't decided what it wanted to be.

The voice nudged her. "Try transforming. Much faster than this pace."

"I don't know how!"

"It's instinctual."

"Clearly it's not!"

"Think of speed. Think of shift? You're not activating it, you're leaning into it."

"You're not helping!"

Behind her, the insecticons shrieked, their wings rattling like knives. She ducked a claw swipe and nearly pitched off the edge.

Her pedes faltered before one of them folded with a harsh clank, metal snapping and reforming as a wheel replaced her foot. She stumbled forward, off balance at the sudden change.

"There! That! Keep going!"

"What am I doing? What am I even doing?!"

"Having a learning experience at thirty miles per hour."

Her engine roared as she tried to complete the transformation, only succeeding in giving her the weirdest rollerskates she'd ever seen that made her wobble as she raced down this mountainside.

"Wake me up before you go-go..." The song erupted from her internal systems without warning.

"What the?"

"What's with the music?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I have little control of this body right now."

"You don't say."

Her frame warped mid-motion and her hips twisted. With one arm elongated, shifting as her back flattened, wheels forming beneath her. She lurched forward, not quite transformed, her frame caught between two shapes. The ground vanished under her for half a second as she hit a sharp turn too fast.

She spun, caught herself, and accelerated.

Another insecticon pounced and she crashed into it sideways, both of them rolling across the dirt road chaotically. Metal shrieked against metal as she tore at the insecticon lock on her front.

"Get..." She tore her digits into the insection, not realizing her strength as she literally bent its metal exterior, "Off!" She threw it off of her with as much force as she could only...

The bot tumbled over the edge with a startled screech.

Her optic momentarily widened but the chase had kept going, which meant there wasn't time to linger on this...

Rhea shouted, "I don't know what I'm doing!"

"Could've fooled me!"

And the music was still going, "Don't leave me hangin' on like a yo-yo..."

She didn't bother trying to correct it, too busy hitting the gas with nothing but pure instinct and whatever the Cybertonian version was on adrenaline.

Two insecticons pulled ahead and turned to intercept, but she didn't dodge. She plowed through them, her mass sending both tumbling off the ridge into the cliffs below. One claw scraped her side as it fell, leaving a gash but not slowing her down.

She looked down at her side, finding the other gun–the other left somewhere on the top of the mountain from when she had fallen out of the space-bridge portal.

The trail opened wide right as she secured the gun in her servo, assuming that this was a good idea.

"Truck!"

Her helm snapped back forward to see a tourist truck crawling up the path. She barely registered the humans inside before instinct kicked in.

She simply leapt as high as she could, wind screaming under her chassis.

She landed hard and kept going, trying to find her balance while literally driving herself backward. How does one turn around on roller-skate–

Only for another insecticon to drop in her path out of nowhere, not realizing it had flown up to avoid the truck.

"Oh my fucking-" She panicked, swinging her arm up to maybe shoot but her fight-or-flight telling her to let go.

The now-thrown gun clanged against the bot's helm and collapsed in a heap, left behind as she kept driving.

"Did you just throw the gun?"

"Yeah," she squeaked, shocked that her instinct was to do so but hey, can't go back and fix it now... At least she had hit them.

"You know, most people shoot with it."

The trail narrowed ahead, so, with tires roaring, she half-rolled, half-lunged through the curve. Her frame finally clicked into place with a metallic shudder, the transformation locking in all at once. Everything realigned and suddenly she was low to the ground, sleek and fast and terrifyingly mobile. Still backward, unfortunately.

"Hey! You did it! Welcome to motion."

The last insecticon lunged from the ridge as it caught back up and she pushed herself forward rather than backward to ram it head-on.

Her chassis shuddered from the impact, the insecticon flailing with its claws tearing at the earth only to go right off the edge as crumbled and offline metal, falling to the ocean.

She braked hard to stop herself from going over too, dirt spraying in all directions as her back wheels lifted, skidding her to a halt, and tipped right over.

Momentum pulled her forward as the edge crumbled and she failed to break in time.

Her transformation reversed in a flash of panic, plating reforming into arms and legs as she clawed at the air, metal digits grasping for anything solid.

The wind howled louder now, full of salt and gravity. The sea surged below her, rising too fast as her limbs flailed. Every part of her frame fought to find friction where there was none.

She didn't think. She couldn't.

There was only the rising sharp and cold in her spark, something primal she couldn't name, something that churned at the thought of going under as the blue water got closer and closer.

She screamed again, louder, catching nothing.

She needed to go back, to get back up there. To... go back.

She thought it, not in words, but in desperation–an ache, a command, a wish–

"...Hold on," the voice said softly.

And the world shivered.

Reality cracked around her, light distorting in strands like threads pulled taut. Her tanks swooped, feeling as if gravity had physically faltered on her only for an invisible force to drag her backward.

Time snapped and reeled backward in a coiling spiral... The wind reversed direction as the scream pulled back into her throat. Cliffside grass folded back into place to which she returned.

As everything fell back into place, like gravity slamming back into effect, she slammed her pedes into the ground and stopped.

Her arms flailed slightly to balance right at the cliff edge, optics wide and stunned and looking over where she had just fallen seconds prior.

The sea still roared below, her trembling frame unable to do anything but stare where the mist still curled, feeling her helm spin dizzily.

She couldn't speak.

A moment passed as she gathered her senses, feeling suddenly light-helmed.

Then the distant rumble of an engine echoed along the mountain path.

The tourist truck, she realized, was coming back.

She looked down at herself only to find, unsurprisingly, in the last few seconds of whatever kind of time-reversing phenomenon that was, she was still a massive alien.

Panic bit at her again, and she knew she couldn't be seen like this. Humans would panic, which she knew.

Who knew if they'd send, god forbid, a Talos after her.

She did not yet realize Talos did not exist here, or she was in an entirely different reality altogether.

She turned, stumbling away from the cliffside, forcing her frame to move even as her limbs screamed in protest. She staggered up a nearby ridge, weaving through rocks and low brush until she found an opening–a shallow, rocky cave carved into the mountain.

Darkness swallowed her as she dragged herself inside, feeling much more now the effects of the last twenty minutes on her frame.

The voice was quieter now, not snarky or sharp, just present. "You okay?"

She groaned something in response but was more focused on the way her frame ached. Her joints were strained and every system buzzed with low warning lights.

She rolled onto her back once deep enough inside, blessed by the cold stone beneath her against her suddenly very warm-to-the-touch frame.

Her optics flickered tiredly.

"What... what was that..." she whispered out loud, finally.

If there had been a reply, she hadn't heard it.

Whatever that was... how she ended back up on the cliffside, not to mention her injuries, it made her so tired.

She had so many questions...

How she got here. Why she was there. Who this voice was. Where her family was. If the bots were still with them.

How this had all... happened.

She cycled her optics once. Then twice. Her systems suddenly dimmed and the cliffside wind faded from her awareness.

The questions would have to be answered later because Rhea's frame demanded she power down, and she did just that, not even realizing that the voice had been nagging her for a response for a while now.

Now that she lay in this dark, quiet cave, the voice seemed to realize she had fallen into recharge.

"Some help you're gonna be," it muttered fondly in annoyance into the quiet. "But... we'll get there."

Chapter 17: To Be With You in Paradise

Summary:

"It's just me."

The wind was wrong that morning. Not just in the way it shifted the desert heat off the cliffs or bent the dry air sideways through old sandstone canyons, but in the way it refused to carry sound.

The humans felt it first.

The ones in faded field gear and sun-split helmets, brushing sand from glinting blue veins carved into the ancient rock face, paused only briefly when the world stilled around them. One of the researchers–young, sunburned, and half-lost in his notes–had just begun to ask a question when the far-off screech of propulsion broke through the sky like a needle dragged across a record.

They didn't have time to run.

The blast hit the edge of the site with devastating precision, rupturing dust and metal into the air as the cliffside buckled under the sonic force of arrival. Screaming followed, but it was swallowed quickly in the cacophony of crashing scaffolding, toppled dig tents, and the sudden thunder of approaching feet–not human.

Vehicons.

There were at least a dozen of them, tall, dark, and efficient. Their plating was matte, reinforced for terrain and blunt-force combat.

Their weapons were already drawn, gleaming beneath the haze of dust as they moved across the broken site with clinical brutality.

The first human that reached for a radio was disarmed–literally. The second was spared only by the poor aim of the first shot.

The Vehicons fanned out with practiced ease, taking position across the dig zone. It hadn't been a military operation. For once they lacked their usual storm-trooper aim, at least when it came to the humans as targets. The humans had no defenses beyond loud voices and flashlights.

It wasn't a battle at that point, merely a sweep.

Down below the edge of the collapse, nestled between the craggy gut of the canyon wall and the equipment-laced diglines, and inside the mine was the raw energon that pulsed like a living thing.

Clusters of it had pushed up through layers of rust-colored sediment like crystalline ribs, as if something ancient had died there and left behind its bones to glow in defiance of time.

The Seeker leading the others dropped from the ridge and landed hard near the formation, his frame heavier, broader than the rest. His color was different too, tarnished brass along his shoulders, a chain-like scar pattern across his left knee. He was tall, sleek, polished, marked with a commander's sharp lines and the confidence of authority. A Decepticon insignia curved across his chassis like a threat, faceplate framed by sharpened helm crests.

Strainline.

He moved like someone who already owned the place. His steps were slow, but every motion implied consequence.

One of the lieutenants, younger, armor still dusted from flight, stepped forward and glanced down at the jagged field of glowing blue beneath their pedes as they entered the cave.

"Commander," the Vehicon muttered, voice low with awe, "you ever seen an energon deposit this big before?"

Strainline didn't look at him.

Instead, he crouched near one of the exposed formations, one sharp digit extending to lightly tap the surface. It chimed softly beneath the touch.

"Not on Earth," he said simply. His voice was rasped, distorted in its restraint. "We hit the jackpot."

He straightened. "Send a scan team deeper into the canyon wall. If there's this much on the surface, there's more buried underneath. I want confirmation before the breem is out."

Another Vehicon moved to obey while a third paused.

"Sir... if I may... Why do we require this much energon? Even converted, it exceeds what we need to sustain..."

Strainline's helm turned, slowly, and the red of his optics narrowed. "Lord Megatron has grown... concerned. With the disappearance of our higher command across multiple quadrants. There had been a requested supply that stockpiles be expanded. I do not question him. Neither will you."

Silence followed the order and the dig began.

The rest of the Vehicons fanned out again, the clatter of metal tools echoed, and several began unloading compact mining equipment from the transport units now grounded nearby. The crystal beds shimmered faintly with every impact, bleeding light up into the walls like scattered moonfire.

Down a narrow path cleaved into a deeper portion of the cave, away from the others, three Vehicons descended into a darker mouth of it. Their headlights flicked on, beams crossing over jagged stone and the subtle glow of deeper crystal veins flickering along the path like veins through bone.

"Creepy down here," one muttered, optics flickering as dust caught the light.

"You signed up for creepy," another snapped, sweeping his scanner along the wall. "You want fun, go join the Seekers."

"Oh please, they're all wings and no processors."

"Shut up, both of you. Commander said check for deeper–"

They didn't finish their bickering because the third, in front, froze mid-step.

His pede hovered just above a wire his ankle had nicked forward, but it was too late to step over it now. How had they not noticed it strung across the path like a trap a spider had set.

His optics widened as he realized what it was. "...No, no, no, no–"

The mechanism clicked and instantly, a magnetic claw whirred to life from the rocks above and latched onto the nearest bot's ankle. With a yank, it hoisted him upward like a misbehaving puppet. He yelped, flailing, "HEY, HEY!"

A second was snagged, screaming as his scanner clattered to the floor.

The third turned to run, only for the rock to give beneath his step and launch him upward in a burst of compression gas and frayed cables.

All three dangled from the cave ceiling now, hanging upside down like a row of defeated ornaments.

"...This sucks," one groaned.

"You tripped it!"

"Did not!"

"Did to! Look at your stupid pede!"

"You know what? Next time you lead!"

They swung helplessly, arguing.

Then, abruptly, the air shimmered quietly amongst their bickers.

A low whine rose from the floor of the cave. Light began to twist around an invisible point. Static peeled through the space in erratic bursts. A circle of pulsing energy surged from nothing, lines of green and white spiraling inward with stuttering urgency, purple and pink flickering in there in a way that made them uneasy.

The Vehicons went quiet, still dangling and upside down.

"...Is that what I think it is?" one asked, voice dry.

"Definitely not good," another muttered.

Because they all knew what it was, even if it didn't look quite like it was supposed to.

A groundbridge, except something was off about it. It flinched and flickered with a will of its own.

And whatever was coming through it wasn't following orders either.

A low wind pushed through the cave. It moved like the breath of the ground itself had shifted, a warning exhaled through the narrow veins of the canyon as if the stone was trying to say something was wrong.

At the cavern's mouth, near the central energon fields where equipment clanked and drills whined in lazy rhythm, the lieutenant tilted his helm as he heard it.

Click. Click. Click.

Slow pedesteps... Faint, hollow and metallic.

He turned slightly, one clawed digit tapping against his crossed arms.

"Took you long enough," he said dryly, his voice curling with the arrogant bite only fliers ever truly mastered. "Lose yourselves down a–"

He never finished, because then he saw the light.

The energon crystals, the pure, searing blue that had lit the cavern in a cold glow, suddenly pulsed. It was as if something unseen had stirred in the current beneath its crystalline surface. The light cracked and bled outward. The brilliant blue veins spiderwebbing along the cave walls began to react, faint pulses moving from one jagged edge to the next as if bleeding toward them.

The glowing blue bled into hints of rose and violet and threads of gold. The edges of the crystals frayed with opalescent color like dye poured into water, seeping across the rigid edges with unnatural fluidity the closer the footsteps got, reacting to whoever it was in such an unnatural way.

This scene was familiar among the Decepticons and their many failures at these energon deposits.

"She's here," one of the other Vehicons muttered, voice tight with dread.

"The damn land-skimmer," the lieutenant hissed, wings twitching, rage flaring across his field like a short circuit.

They all turned, slowly, toward the deeper throat of the cave. Their guns lifted, visors sharpened, knees braced for the battle that waited.

And then... She stepped into the light.

Red plating dulled in places, scorched in others, not to mention the dust smeared across her chassis, and jagged across her frame was evidence of battles she hadn't needed to speak about to make clear. Her walk was fluid but heavy, each step pressing into the ground like she dared the world to push back.

The suddenly brightened, almost white raw energon crystals around them with swirls of blues, purples, golds and other colors lit up, bringing like to the Decepticon insignia that once marked her chassis was gone–ripped away by force, leaving a jagged gash of raw paint beneath where it had been.

They stared as she stared back, only able to see the mask of her visor reflecting the glow of the room, shaped like an owl's faceplate–sharp-angled, smooth and white, with sweeping silver arcs along the temples and a soft feathered texture engraved into the curve of the brows. Her optics behind it glowed an icy blue that flickered faintly, like moonlight through water. The mask hid her faceplate, but not her stare.

That stare burned right back at them.

She stopped several meters from them, the cave still humming with twisted energon light around her.

They waited.

No one dared move, letting the tense air stretch on like a wire pulled too tight.

Then, slowly, she tilted her helm to the side so close her audial nearly pressed her shoulder. It was a silent, animal motion. Calculating and watching like an owl reading the bones in the leaves.

Then, in one fluid motion, her servo reached down to her hip, yanked free a compact cylinder and her supporting digit snapped the pin out.

Clink!

The sound echoed, and they barely had time to react as she tossed the smoke bomb low. It spun twice before bursting against the stone with a hiss and a pulse of light–thick, red-tinted smoke exploded outward in a ripple that filled the cavern in seconds, bleeding into the glow of the energon and shrouding everything in a crimson haze.

"CONTACT!" the lieutenant barked, his wings snapping outward as his rifle swung up.

But she was already gone and the smoke danced with shadow, and then came the sound as they found themselves lost in the thick of the smoke with her.

Click. Click.

Two pistols pulled from her hips that she didn't fire.

Instead, others heard as a sharp elbow met a Vehicon's backplate, his systems scrambled, optics flickering as he hit the ground with a grunt.

A second stumbled as something slammed into his helm, spinning him into a mining rig causing sparks to burst.

They couldn't understand why none of the gunfire came directly from her, none of the lethals at her own servo as they tried to shoot her.

Tried, being the keyword here, because shadows shifted before their weapons could lock.

One tried to flank her, got close enough to see the mask up close, glowing blue optics like twin embers in the mist, before she kneed his chassis and launched him back into two others with a burst of force from her pedes.

She wasn't here to end them.

She was here to move through them and put an end to this operation.

The lieutenant, furious, swung wide, trying to clear the smoke with his wings as he transformed and the smoke swallowed his curse whole.

The smoke churned in turbulent currents and spun outward as the sudden roar of a jet engine cracked through the chamber like thunder peeling against the walls. The lieutenant had taken to the air, his wings sweeping the dust aside as he shot upward, only to spiral back down in a tight, predatory arc.

The crimson haze scattered like loose silk caught in a storm, pulled into a cyclone by his momentum. He circled her with the speed of a darting raptor, each pass slicing closer to the epicenter of the swirling cloud she stood within.

She didn't move.

Not yet.

The energon shimmered again around her, hues still clinging to her presence, refracting in shades of flame and dusk, and though the smoke around her was now being stripped back, layer by layer, by the seeker's endless spirals. The floor cracked faintly beneath the force of his gusts.

But she didn't waver.

She simply watched him, her masked helm remained still, gaze locked upward as the Seeker carved a vortex around her as if shining a spotlight on the dormant wings on her back that were left unused in favor of her wheels, but as an insult. The owl-like visor over her faceplate glowed faintly, unblinking without a twitch of her frame gave away the pressure building in her joints, nor the fact that she could not fly.

The moment came on the third pass, when his wings arched for descent, and the cyclonic spin narrowed into a precision dive. He came down hard, overconfident in the way only a flier could be, talons reaching, gun raised to finish her where she stood. His whole frame was a blur of weight and pride.

She rolled to the side, the dive missing her by a meter. His clawed digits hit stone, not steel, and he stumbled. She pivoted as he passed, swift to not waste a single motion, and caught him mid-drop with a sharp strike from her leg, her full force concentrated behind the kick that clipped him across the shoulder and knocked him off balance.

He hit the floor, wing-first.

Before he could rise, her arm was already raised, one gun still in her grip while the other remained at her side, and she steadied it without hesitation.

She fired, the blast hitting his left wing dead center. Metal shrieked as plating cracked, forcing the Seeker to sprawl sideways, one wing hanging limply now–clipped and grounded the same way he mocked her for.

Therefore, out of her way since she had gotten used to being unable unlike the Seeker before her.

He snarled something, rage cutting through the sound of failing hydraulics, but she was already turning and ignoring him–as he was no longer a problem.

Her attention was on the far wall where the entrance was, what she had come for.

Her other arm lifted steadily, taking a moment to aim at the tiniest bloom of color hidden just behind a rack of abandoned mining gear from the human archaeologist she had been keeping tabs on.

She fired right at the hot pink and electric blue swirled together in the shape of a stylized butterfly hidden in plain sight.

The blast struck the core of the symbol and the device came alive.

She didn't wait to see if it worked, already sprinting back the way she came.

The Seeker tried to rise and failed, while the others shouted behind her, confused.

"She's running?"

"Why the frag is she running?!"

"Does this mean we won?"

"She did just retreat..."

Then they heard it. The tick and the whir.

It suddenly became very clear that she had been running for good reason right before the first charge detonated with a deep, rolling boom that sounded like the earth itself had roared awake.

The cavern shook as the crystals cracked open like shrapnel flowers.

She ran on, the crystals behind her beginning to shift again like a runway of color as she fell deeper into the cave, thecolors draining when she left crystals behind and bleeding backwards into a cool, electric blue.

BOOM.

The second charge detonated, a crystalline explosion that shattered the nearby wall and sent a cascading rain of dust and blue fire through the chamber.

Her frame ducked low as debris flared behind her, the heat kissing the back of her wings as she pushed harder, faster.

The explosions followed her like the ghost of every decision she'd ever made, hungry and hot, licking at her back like a flame with memory. She moved fast, graceful in the way only chaos could train you to be as her small wings stayed pinned, her mask low and optics focused beneath it.

She vaulted over a fallen column, swung under a half-collapsed pipe system, didn't break stride when another blast ignited just meters behind her.

She passed the three Vehicons still dangling helplessly from the trap near the exit, still swaying and panicked. Their heads snapped toward her, all wide-optic.

The owl mask stared back, lenses glowing faintly in the dark like starlight seen through smoke. There was no expression that they could see, just catching that glow of blue staring back at their red.

They had been so distracted that they hadn't noticed her raise her gun and shoot the mechanism holding the wire in the wall on the opposite side of her.

They hit the floor, free and able to save themselves, but she was already gone.

The glitching groundbridge yawned open before her, a spiral of warped green light flickering in and out of form. It was barely stable, pulsing at the edges like it might collapse on itself, yet she leapt.

The sound of the next explosion cracked the cave behind her as the detonation chain followed her escape path. The final light of the cavern surged toward the bridge's edge as she crossed through–

And vanished.

The groundbridge collapsed mid-blast, cutting off the last sounds of destruction behind her.

---

The groundbridge shut behind him with a low, resonant thrum, sealing the fracture in space with a quiet finality that sounded far too much like goodbye.

The silence that followed was immediate, thick, and immense. It pressed in around Jazz like an invisible current, the kind that drowns you without water.

The air at this height was thin, crisp, and untouched, but he didn't vent it in. He only stood there, on that cliffside ridge, the one he had spoken of before with a voice softer than any he usually wore. The grass beneath his pedes was the same as when he left it months ago before the accident that drew him to the wrong universe, still weathered, still jagged, but it felt different now.

The wind cut through the open sky and curled around him with gentle hands, as if trying to coax him into feeling something other than the steady weight in his chassis.

He didn't move for a long moment. Just stood, staring out across the Faroe Islands as the sun bled out into the sea.

The horizon burned orange and red, sinking into dusky lavender where the ocean met sky somewhere below the ledge he was far from at the moment.

It was beautiful... The kind of beauty that hurt to look at.

Because...

Perhaps Rhea had been right about that feeling, that loneliness.

It was new when he was here, but that could've been because he now knew what he was missing.

His servo moved slowly, quietly, reaching into his subspace, and what he pulled free was small.

Her music box. Deep red and worn at the edges, silver accents dulled by time. His supporting digit brushed across its surface, over the still-visible cracks, the places she had once believed broken beyond repair.

Jazz lowered himself to one knee on the ridge, his other arm draped across it, visor reflecting the blaze of the sunset as he stared down at the box in his servo. It felt absurd, how small it was. How light it was, and so delicate surviving while she hadn't.

Though, he would've given anything to be big enough to stop the events that had unfolded at the time. The universe had been cruel in that aspect.

The wind shifted as a chirp cracked through his comm line.

:: Jazz. ::

It was Optimus.

:: We've returned. Everyone is accounted for. We'll reach base shortly and send you a bridge from there. Status? ::

Jazz didn't answer right away. He let the silence stretch as long as he could afford to before replying.

:: Made it back to my previous position, Prime. ::

:: Acknowledged. Stand by.::

The line cut.

Jazz vented, the weight in his spark pressing against the cage of his frame.

His servo curled around the box just a little tighter, but not daring to do so tight enough to break something so precious.

He didn't hear her laugh in the wind. He didn't imagine her voice. This wasn't grief in the poetic sense, it was real and sharp and aching. It was absence as a shape, an edge, a weight.

Until a sound made him freeze, helm snapping up in the direction it had come from.

His optics narrowed at the sound of a muffled voice, and the box disappeared back into subspace in an instant.

Jazz moved like vapor between the stones–low, silent, and bleeding into shadow in pure instinct.

The cliffs here were not made for comfort, but they offered a thousand cracks and crags to slip through, and he took each one like a breath. A half step to the left, the crunch of gravel muted beneath his pedes, and the faint sound of a femme's voice carried on the wind, strained but steady.

For a moment he thought there must've been at least two present given this femme spoken aloud...

He crouched low, visor glinting faintly as he crept up a moss-covered ridge.

From here, he could see her. A red Cybertronian femme streaked with dust, armor dulled in places from wear or battle. She had no escort or insignia and she was... speaking into open air?

"Don't tell me not to be a pessimist. Humans died," she said bitterly to seemingly no one, pacing slowly toward a jagged stretch of stone that jutted outward toward the sea like a finger pointing into the unknown.

There was a pause as she tilted her helm, like she was listening to someone. A commlink, maybe?

"Of course it's my fault. I should've been there sooner."

Another beat passed, and she reached the base of the ridge. He watched as her servos found stone like she'd done this a hundred times, even though it was clear by the way her pedes slipped once–twice–that she hadn't mastered it entirely. Or she was just clumsy.

Either way, it made the whole thing easier for him.

The climb was brutal, sharp-edged and steep, angled enough that even he wouldn't have called it easy. And yet she climbed like it was something she had to prove. To the ghosts, he joked to himself.

"You want me to be positive? Fine, fine," she huffed, venting heavily but climbing on. "My gadgets actually didn't fail on me. The alert system worked... even if it wasn't enough of an alert."

There was a pause before her voice grew more irritable and louder, "OKAY! I'll stop if you just shush. I want to watch the sunset."

She was near the top now.

And so was he.

But he didn't move to confront. At least, not yet.

He stayed just below the rise, visor tilted upward, listening. The angle gave him a partial view as she crested the ridge, standing tall and framed by that wide-open sky, her back to him and shoulders squared against the wind.

The sunset had swallowed the horizon whole.

Light poured over her in molten gold, painting the edges of her armor like fire, like memory. It lit the edge of her seeker wings–ragged, scorched in one place but still proud–and turned her silhouette into something mythic, something broken and holy all at once.

But then he also noticed the wheels that sat on her hips and calves, making him wonder if she was some sort of triple-changer... He couldn't recall the last time he had seen one of those frame types, which only further her curiosity.

Her helm tilted back slightly, wind falling to move her as she stood against it as if it belonged to her.

Jazz stared, sensing... something about her. Not her form, though even from behind, it tugged at a memory.

It was like the air shifted around her, as if the world remembered her before he could.

And then...she turned.

Only slightly, but just enough that he caught the glint of her visor lifting as the golden light caught her faceplate.

And in an instant, his spark seized.

A memory buried within his processors, one discussed with no one, rose to the surface. And for a moment, he couldn't help but picture the lifeless optic staring back at him.

Jazz leapt into action as he snapped that back away, and the climb ended in one breathless leap. His servos slammed against stone and then he was up, perched on the ridge with his visor bright and wide, optics sharp with sudden purpose. His field tightened like a coiled wire, nothing short of defensive.

His shadow stretched long across the stone as the wind whipped between them.

She turned fully at the sound of movement, optics meeting his as she stood there, glowing, startled, but not afraid to see him like she should've been.

Recognition bloomed, contrasting one another.

It happened in a breath, but it was a half-second that lasted forever.

Her optics widened, intake parted, a sound catching on her glossa like hope and disbelief rolled into one. Like a miracle unfolding too fast to trust.

She barely got the designation out.

"Ja-"

The wind carried the rest of it away, and so did Jazz.

He surged forward, cutting the space between them in a single, brutal motion. His weight slammed into her like a meteor, his shoulder driving hard into her helm, and she went flying, backward–off her pedes, off her balance–crashing against the rocky cliffside.

The edge of the world yawned below her, a sheer drop into open sea, and the earth beneath her frame skidded with a gravel screech of metal on stone. The wind had caught the edges of her pinned wings and shoved her just enough to spin her sideways instead of over.

She slammed down hard, her side taking the brunt of it, metal shrieking against rock as she crumpled with a wheeze of stolen air.

Before she could move again, he was already there.

She went to raise her arm as she turned over–instinctively to shield, or explain, or maybe beg him not to, but he didn't let her. He kicked her servo aside as he pinned her, and his knee dropped hard to brace her torso.

A hiss of metal and the flash of a blade cut into her vision.

It slid from the compartment on his wrist, humming low and cold. Its edge gleamed bright against the fading gold of the setting sun, and he raised it high with no hesitation in the motion, all memory from doing this for eons and eons, all survival. He held it there for only a second, his other servo gripping her shoulder hard, locking her down, and then–

He stopped.

Optics locked on her where something had caught him, like a light in the fog. A flicker of something ancient and familiar in her optics.

She was venting hard beneath him, expelling hot air against him as her frame trembled, energon trailing in a slender ribbon from where he'd cracked a fuel line near her cheek-plate. It dripped in quiet pulses, her faceplate scratched and strained, optics wide and shining.

She didn't even fight back, merely staring back at him with a look that made the instincts in Jazz dim.

That look in her optics... She wasn't even angry with him like his usual opponent was. The blue of her optics swirled with fear.

She was afraid.

But not of him.

Afraid for him.

It disarmed him in a way nothing else could have. His blade trembled slightly where it hovered in the air. The look in her optics wasn't begging or pleading. It wasn't the look of someone trying to survive.

It was the look of someone who knew him.

Something about that expression hit him like the memory of warmth.

But his moment of hesitance was short-lived as time suddenly unraveled.

The air bent around them, colors warping as gravity faltered like the planet had hiccupped. The very sky peeled back as though unseen fingers had grabbed the edge of the moment and dragged it backward.

The weight of his own frame unspooled and recoiled, like tension snapping in reverse.

And suddenly he was no longer on top of her.

He was at the edge of the ridge again as if he had imagined all of it, two steps behind the version of himself that hadn't yet struck.

She stood before him now, not on the ground but upright–braced, rattled, but holding.

Her servo shot up in front of her toward him this time, proving he wasn't just reliving the same moment like some sort ofnightmare.

"Jazz, wait!" she cried. "It's me! It's Rhea!"

The sound hit him like a new kind of impact and everything about him went still.

His vents drew a shaky pull of air as his frame recalibrated, optics scanning the shape of her, the new reality folding inlike origami.

Her voice dropped into something smaller, whisper carried on the salt of the ocean. "It's just me."

Suddenly, there was nothing but silence.

No birds cawing overhead. No wind fighting against their frames. No crash of tide below.

She stood frozen, servos still up, her wings tucked tight to her back against her stiff frame. She looked as if she feared that this moment might shatter if she vented wrong, even shifted.

The sun framed her from behind, spilling light across her shoulders in rivulets of white-gold. Her faceplate, softened by desperation, washed in it, casting her expression in something too real to deny. Too sacred to fight.

Jazz's optics flickered, and from beneath his visor, his optics scanned every bit of her in the silence.

Then, his pedes moved.

One slow step.

Then another.

She didn't flinch as he reached her with a stillness that felt sacred.

Then, suddenly, like the dam had burst, he pulled her into a hug.

A hug.

Something he wouldn't dare take for granted ever again.

He wrapped both arms around her, tight and close and desperate. Her frame tensed for a split second, like she didn't know what was happening, like she couldn't believe it.

That was short-lasting, because she couldn't help but melt into it as her servos slid up around his back, and she buried her faceplate against his shoulder. Her optics squeezed shut as her whole frame trembled.

And against his armor, he felt the telltale heat and wetness of her tears, one drop then two. They pattered against his armor and he didn't even care.

His arms squeezed tighter.

The red femme who had waited on his sunset ridge he told her about, had waited there longer than he could possibly know, was in his arms now, breaking, whole, and alive.

He had so many questions, and so many things that needed to be answered, but neither of them spoke. They would have to push this off to later because it felt like an eternity since he had last breathed her presence.

Jazz had no idea how long it had truly been. Mere hours for him and for her?

He never imagined he'd find her here, but he was damn fragging happy about it.

The sun, in its final descent, kissed the back of the ridge in gold and silence, as if it, too, knew what it was witnessing.

And the wind, soft this time, curled around them like a promise.

Yeah, he could get answers later, because he had her here with him on the edge of the light.

And he didn't ever want to let go now that he had the ability to hold on.

Notes:

Jazz: So how long you been here in this reality?
Rhea: Uhhh
Jazz: You remind me of those characters Jinx and Ekko
Rhea: UHHHH
Jazz: Actually our entire dynamic is kinda very time-bomb esque?
*rhea has left the chat*

Chapter 18: Cross My Spark

Summary:

"Ya got yourself a deal, Replay."

The sun was barely clinging to the edge of the world.

A low orange blaze curled up from the horizon like flame off dying embers, casting the cliffside in a wash of gold and bloodlight. The wind moved slow here, gentle, as if respectful of the moment, too careful to interrupt the fragile stillness that had settled between two souls who hadn't been in each other's orbit in... too long to say aloud.

Jazz didn't speak right away, and neither did she.

Rhea was sitting again after their long hug that felt like it would last eternity, back against a stone outcrop, one leg pulled close to her chassis as if trying to take up less space. Her frame still shimmered faintly from the energon leak earlier, sealed now, but not forgotten. The damage was shallow, superficial, and not nearly enough to hinder, but enough to mark her.

Jazz sat beside her, masking everything else he felt in favor of helping her clean her faceplate. She had told him multiple times that it was okay, but the mech had literally punched her... He wasn't just going to let that go...

Which was probably why she kept stealing glances at him like she could see the flicker beneath the visor, the micro-twitch of tension in his jaw. Like maybe she knew what he wasn't saying.

And maybe she did. Still... she stopped insisting she was fine and let him treat her faceplate if it would help ease the guilt leaking from his fairly closed-off EM field–something she wasn't used to feeling.

Primus–the only Cybertronians she had come across weren't close enough or unguarded enough for her to feel an EM field in its entirety, or had just been negativity amidst whatever brief battle she found herself in.

Even if this was only a flicker of what a raw EM field looked like–leaked emotions, really–it was utterly distracting. Enough so that she didn't even focus on his digits being as gentle as possible against her faceplate as he patched up the little leak. His gentle touches might as well have been feather grazing her with how much care and intention he put behind not making it worse for her.

She wondered if the suppressed field was something you had to learn, and stressed about it momentarily as her optics stared at his blue visor awfully close to her, working on her faceplate.

It was like he knew to suddenly bring her processor away from that fact, spiking up a conversation–a much-awaited topic."Y'gonna tell me how you ended up out here?" he asked softly with a tone that wasn't demanding–it never was, not with her. But it held a weight to it, the kind that asked more than just where have you been. It asked why now. Why here. And beneath it all: how the frag are you even alive?

Rhea didn't say anything to that at first, optics falling to the side even though she tried not to move too much as he worked.

Jazz, being the observant mech he was, noticed the way her servos twisted together in her lap, digits pulling at each other like a habit from another lifetime. He was patient, silently waiting as her optics traced the far distance like she was looking for the words across the horizon–they were getting hard to see with the way the sun barely peeked over now.

She told him that she remembered waking up, being somewhere on Cybertron... That she encountered Shockwave–something he deemed important to note, given the war still happening–and how she broke his space bridge with insecticons sent after her.

"I didn't really...know..." Rhea paused for a moment when trying to explain how she ended up on this island exactly, though the space bridge was quite the clue. She murmured quietly, "where else to go..."

"But... I remembered you explaining this place." Her voice shrank a bit, still failing to look at him as she admitted this.

Something tugged at the corner of his expression, almost a smile, but not quite. Something closer to touched.

"You remembered that?" he asked with a small smile, recalling the conversation they had.

She nodded, just once.

A silence settled again as the wind picked up a little this time, curling through their plating, tugging at her lines, the wires around her joints. She didn't flinch as he sprayed something a little cold against her faceplate to prevent a rust infection, but he then scanned the rest of her for further injuries.

There wasn't much, but he could see a few scratches and grazes that would heal once the nanites kicked in, though probably something that needed to be scanned by Ratchet for precaution. It was nothing emergent, but it was fresh, and he found himself asking, "That where you got these from?" He tipped his helm toward her injuries, his voice more clinical now, less weighty.

She looked down at her side, tracing the sealed line. "No... I, um–"

He stared at her, waiting but calculating what she said and how she said it as she struggled to finish. There was something in the way she said it. Not in the words themselves, but in the emptiness around them. That edge of a story not yet told. And Jazz wasn't a bot who liked blank spaces.

He was about to ask her more, but the comm crackled in his helm.

:: Jazz, status? Bridge is active, we've got the lock. Standing by. ::

His jaw clenched, glancing back over the cliff edge where the light bent around a sliver of space distortion–the flickering hum of the ground bridge waiting for him below.

He turned back to her, filing the conversation topic for later in favor of those waiting on him, and unknowingly her. "We gotta go. The base is waiting."

But Rhea didn't move. She didn't even try to rise. Her servo lifted to her arm, gripping it gently, digits tapping against the metal there as she nervously stared out at the light again, not the bridge waiting.

He frowned. "Rhea?"

"I can't," she whispered, as if it hurt to say out loud.

His field stilled as something inside him stopped, gently, like a needle lifting off a record.

"What?"

It didn't make sense to him. She should be eager to get back. All the bots were there, the kids...

But she didn't look at him, as if ashamed. "I want to. I just..." Her voice cracked around the edges, and she squeezed her arms tighter. "I can't."

Jazz stared at her, calculating and trying to read her the best he could.

He was the best at that, but this time he had little to no answers. He didn't have all the pieces, so she didn't quite know what to do to get her to come back to base with him.

The comm chirped again, more urgently.

:: What's the delay? Do you need backup? ::

He stood sharply, stepping to the edge of the cliff and back again like pacing would solve it.

:: Negative, :: he said smoothly. :: Give me a klik. Minor delay, nothin' serious. ::

Jazz never fumbled a lie. Not in battle, not in politics, not in anything when it came to succeeding in whatever his goal was.. Except, maybe...

He looked back at her again. Still seated and holding herself as if she let go, she'd fall apart.

"Rhea..." he said more gently this time.

She looked up at him, finally. Optics bright in the dying light, but dim behind them. The only word he could use to describe her right now was afraid, though he lacked the reasoning why.

"I'll explain everything," she assured, her voice was stronger this time, but guarded. "Later."

His visor didn't flicker, but he tilted his helm a bit in confusion. "Everything?" If she had only just gotten here, how much was there?

She smiled softly. It barely touched her faceplate, but it was there if not to do anything but assure him. "I'll be here when you come back." But he was not convinced by the way her new wings, she had yet to realize how she felt if she didn't control their movements, lowered behind her, or the EM field that spilled all her secrets.

Jazz hesitated, not liking anything about this picture. Not one bit.

And still... He trusted her.

She made a little gesture with two digits over her chassis–slow, deliberate. "Cross my spark," she promised, and his vents slipped out a long, low exhale.

He nodded, hesitating just once in his step back, before climbing down the cliffside.

Jazz was back on the field, looking up where he could see her the further he backed up toward the awaiting ground bridge.

:: Jazz: : Someone complained, making the mech tsk in annoyance. Just wait.

But the sun was falling below the horizon, leaving her as nothing but a shadowed silhouette upon that cliff, staring back at him with the darker blues seeping down the sky behind her. It was getting cold, or perhaps that was just because he was leaving... if only for a moment.

He vented one last time, processors swirling with confusion and concern, before he turned around and let the light swallow him whole.

---

The hum of the ground bridge dissolved behind him like static and Jazz stepped through, helm lifting just slightly as he emerged from the wash of light. The artificial glow overhead buzzed dully compared to the last glimmer of sunset he'd left behind. It felt colder in here, a bit off, but maybe that was just him.

"Yo, look who finally rolled back in!"

Smokescreen was the first to meet him, all energy and relief, throwing a casual arm around Jazz's shoulder with the ease of someone who hadn't just been surviving with 90% of the team missing in a multiversal fracture for months. His field was buzzing, a little jittery, but warm.

Jazz let it happen, shoulder rolling into the half-embrace even as his own field bristled like static behind his plating. "'Bout time. We were just about to send Mirage in after you."

"Miss me already?" Jazz quipped, voice perfectly level, even smooth. His intake curved like always, like it meant nothing.

"Obviously," Smokescreen grinned. "Would've gone after you myself if Ratchet didn't threaten to weld my wheels to the floor."

"Now there's a visual," came Mirage's voice, dry but amused. The silver spy stepped toward them in the already busy main vein of the base with a nod and a faint smirk. "Jazz."

"'Raj," Jazz greeted, clasping his arm in a brief gesture of mechhood. "Didn't know you'd landed planet-side."

"Just got in with the tail end of the cleanup. Figured you'd be busy, as usual."

"Somethin' like that," Jazz murmured, tone still light. Mirage didn't question it.

But something in Jazz's field was too low, too controlled.

That they had noticed, probably. They had spent many, many vorns in Spec Ops together, so one got to know the other fairly easily. But no one pushed yet.

Movement from the side pulled his attention, apparently where Prowl had been waiting. "You're late," he said.

Jazz spread his arms out like who, me? "Bridge spat me out slow. Must be a glitch."

Prowl didn't smile, instead getting straight to the point. "Protocol. Everyone returning is being cleared by Ratchet."

Jazz tilted his helm, not really wanting to deal with the doc-bot at the moment. "I believe I'm in workin' order, Prowler."

"Protocol," Prowl repeated with an optic-twitch of annoyance at the nickname, with a look that brokered no exceptions, even for him.

Then, after a pause, he said, "It won't take long." Did he dare call that sympathy?

Jazz gave a two-digit salute and started walking, finding no point in arguing.

As he moved through the command platform's upper levels, his optics wandered.

The base was buzzing with the hum of regrouping. Routines reestablishing themselves and pain buried in systems, pressed down under orders and tasks.

But it was the kids who stopped him.

Cora stood on the servos of Bumblebee on the far side of the platform, arms crossed, chin lifted, clearly trying to pretend she wasn't scanning every inch of this strange new world through a lens of deep exhaustion. Her shoulders were tight andher flushed face was composed. But Bee stood close, closer than usual, as if shielding her from a storm that hadn't yet passed.

Calix sat similarly with Bluestreak, legs dangling off the edge of his servos. Bluestreak was talking softly, his voice fast but reassuring. Calix wasn't speaking, but he was listening.

Jaxon was held but Chromia and beside Ironhide, head low and hands fidgeting as Chromia explained something with one outstretched servo toward the rest of the base, probably showing the location of sleeping quarters. Ironhide looked ready to catch him if he so much as swayed.

Madoc and Astryd stood on the platform nearby, hovering close and very obviously saddened but keeping it together.

No one was crying, as the bots were being very delicate about this situation, but Jazz could see the grief wrapped in the small folds of movement. How all conversation happened in a ring around that absence. Like even the idea of her presence still carried weight, just enough to rearrange a space she had never stood in before.

The elevated console platform flickered with the blue-white glow of internal systems. Optimus stood beside it, Fowler at his side on this platform so they were more optic-to-eye-level, both watching the children with carefully measured expressions. The human was speaking, gesturing slowly, voice modulated low. His posture said trust me.

Prowl came up beside Jazz again. "They'll be set up in a temporary rec room tonight," he said, folding his arms. "We'll discuss longer-term options come morning after everyone has had a chance to recharge and Fowler can arrange something better for them."

Jazz gave a soft hum. "They're gonna be okay." That was more of an assurance for himself said aloud, really.

"There's a 72.6% likelihood that they'll recover functionally, but not without emotional scarring. Fowler's agreed to oversee human accommodations and support. The rest will depend on time." And leave it to Prowl to find the logic.

Jazz nodded slowly, like he was still listening, but really, he wasn't.

His processor wasn't here. It was still back on that cliff and echoing with her voice.

I'll be here when you come back.

He didn't want to be here, and he didn't like leaving her there.

Rhea.

Her name hummed at the edges of every thought, unspoken but constant. It had only been kliks since he'd last seen her, since she'd looked up at him with a look he wanted to wipe away and whispered that she'd explain later.

But later already felt too far away.

He needed to understand. How she was even alive, how she was standing there in a frame that shouldn't exist right now, why she was hiding like she didn't want to be found. Why she'd clung to the shadows when all he wanted was to bring her back into the light.

But she'd asked him to keep her hidden for now.

And Primus, he wanted to tell them. All of them.

Rhea's alive.

Sort of.

But she hadn't wanted that.

And Jazz... Jazz had always known how to keep a secret.

He took the excuse as soon as he saw it. "Guess I better report to Ratchet before he tracks me down with a wrench."

Prowl gave the faintest twitch of a nod, and Jazz didn't wait for anything else. He ducked through the corridor like a shadow slipping between duty and defiance.

And even as the medbay doors hissed open to welcome him, even as he schooled his field and kept his movements light, even as Ratchet barked something about not thinking protocols apply to him, Jazz's processor didn't leave the cliff–or rather the girl...femme he left standing there.

---

The field sloped gently away from the cliff, where golden grass rolled under the weight of the afternoon light. The sun was still climbing down its arc, casting everything in that soft, half-glow that felt more like a memory than a moment. Jazz stood still for a moment, letting his optics sweep across the place as the groundbridge closed behind him.

It was quiet here, something he remembered telling her.

And then she appeared.

Rhea stepped out from behind a small bend in the hill, helm tilted, one arm wrapped around the opposite elbow like she wasn't sure how to carry herself. But her optics lit the moment they landed on him, and her posture changed subtly but all at once. She smiled as he began to walk toward her to meet her halfway.

He tilted his helm, something amused flickering just under the surface, but then he copied her motion from the day before, mimicking the x over his spark.

She turned almost immediately with an amused optic-roll, gesturing for him to follow. "Come on. It's not far."

He followed, though he did wonder where they were going.

The way down was carved into the hill by repetition. Her pedes had walked this slope more than a few times, and Jazz noted every step, every patch of scraped rock, every wire partially buried in the grass. It wasn't hard to track her story here, not when it clung to everything.

She walked a few paces ahead, motioning to the ridge like she was guiding him through a museum of half-forgotten projects. She didn't look back much, but her wings flicked when she spoke, unconsciously, like she was excited. Or nervous. Maybe a bit of both.

"I haven't had company," she admitted, almost sheepishly, in warning of the place she resided as they reached the edge of the rock wall she'd called home. "In a while."

"How long's 'a while'?" Jazz asked lightly, though his voice curved down at the edges.

Rhea paused in front of a half-concealed mouth of a cave, hidden behind a hanging sheet of camouflage mesh and an enormous outcropping of rock. In favor of ignoring that question, she stepped inside first, ducking a little from habit even though she didn't need to.

He followed and stopped cold.

The inside was... chaos. Controlled chaos, maybe, but still a mess of color and shape. The walls were covered in half-finished paint, scraps of salvaged paneling, hand-drawn diagrams scrawled in what looked like maybe chalk? Parts of every size and make were organized into heaps that somehow still held structure. Energon crystals laid all around them, decorating the ceilings and walls in blue as they had naturally surfaced there, but turning fairly odd colors whenever she approached–a reaction he couldn't help but widen his optics at, leaving his dermas sealed for now.

This space was like stepping into someone's processor mid-thought.

She stood in the middle of it all with a shrug, curling in on herself, nervous of what he might be thinking. "It looks worse than it is."

Jazz took a slow step inside, visor tracking every detail without a word.

His optics moved slowly over the splatters of paint–she still colored outside the lines, it seemed–the crude repairs, the wild ambition of tech that certainly wasn't standard or stable yet worked, probably.

"I've been working on, um–a lot of gadgets." She moved toward a cluttered desk near a bunch of monitors currently off, picking up something like a remote, turning it over in her hands before setting it back down. Her wings flicked again behind her as she hurriedly tried to fill the quietness with noise. "It's been a lot of trial and error, but hey! I made this cool defensive tripwire thing and..."

He looked around again as she rambled on, listening to her but noting her digit prints that were on everything. Her signature was messy, improvisational, and unmistakably hers.

Rhea had a habit of needing to fill a lonely, quiet space with noise and color.

"How long ya been alone, sweet spark?" he asked when she took some time to pause in between a ramble, voice light, but dipped in quiet gravity.

"Hm?" Her helm tilted, like she hadn't heard him.

Jazz smiled gently. "You've got that tone. Like you're tryin' to distract me before tellin' me somethin' I'm not gonna like." The reference to her previous words to him in her kitchen when he had been obviously hiding something came flowing out so naturally.

She scoffed, fake-light but obviously recognizing it, given her answer. "Now why would I do that?"

The pause stretched, and he let it be in favor of watching the way she worked through her emotions and whatever thoughts spiraled in her helm.

Until finally, she murmured, "Twenty-eight."

He waited for her to go on.

He waited for her to follow that with Earth's words for tracking time.

Days.

Maybe months, though that sunk heavy on his spark.

But nothing could've prepared him for her to follow with the word... "Years."

Jazz didn't move.

She didn't look at him as she said, nor after.

Something about the silence pulled her tight, so she started moving again, quicker than before. An explanation came spilling out to fill the quiet shock he left after her answer. "I waited. I thought maybe the ground bridge would reopen after I got here, that maybe I just needed to stay close. But it never did. And this is an island, so..." Her servos stayed busy.

It dawned on him slowly, with an ache that curled in the pit of his spark. Not just the years or the isolation that weighed in on him, but why here.

She hadn't just ended up here.

She had picked this place because this was where he once told her he was, and where he must be when he'd arrive in this reality.

She came to wait for him where she knew he'd be.

And he never came. At least not until years later...

How many sunsets had she sat and watched to see if he showed up after mentioning it only once to her?

Jazz had never felt so sick with guilt, even if he was the only one finding someone to blame.

"There are humans inland, but not many. There's a lot of tourists, but I don't really have a way off with them." Her voice picked up again, trying to overtake whatever silence had fallen between them in making it all better. But Jazz was only remembering all the underlying fears he knew Rhea had, the ones he filed away mid-conversation, as they surfaced in his memory–which only made the pit in his spark that much deeper.

"So I built this." She crossed the cave, the light of the energon turning colors in some strange phenomena following her, to a frame embedded in front of the farthest stonewall. A half-circle of repurposed ground bridge tech, still flickering with unstable but active energy. "It's not perfect, but it works."

Jazz looked at the machine, then at her wings.

He could've asked why she built this when she could just fly off the island, but he could already guess.

She probably didn't know how. No one had been here to show her. Just a new frame, with no manual, and by the looks of the wheels on her hips and calves–the ones he noticed before–she probably was struggling to figure out being a triple-changer on top of literally turning into a Cybertronian. She had just been... figuring it out for twenty-eight years.

How she had done it alone, he had no idea.

But he was determined to make sure she would not be alone in this any longer.

He looked back at her, gently and with interest. "How'd you build it?" It was a way to lighten the mood.

That sparked her again, happy to hear him say something, especially nothing critical.

She launched into a technical explanation, messy and enthusiastic, voice rising and falling as she pointed out every cobbled-together bit of tech. A projector jury-rigged from a satellite dish, a scanner adapted from a broken energon tracker, bits and pieces of nearly every Earth frequency bouncing around to power the signal. A lot of it looked like scraps she had stolen from ships–but that was a story for later.

He listened–well, mostly, he watched her.

How she moved when she was excited. How quickly she covered pain with something bright. Her smile came in bursts, like she wasn't used to holding it very long anymore. It was such a contrast to her isolated nervousness a few moments prior.

Eventually, he asked, "Anyone know you exist?"

Rhea hesitated. "Sort of."

She motioned to another console and turned it on, where security feeds flickered on a screen. Distant energon fields, archeological sites, and mining locations.

"I knew they'd come to Earth eventually. Decepticons, I mean. It was only a matter of time. So I set things up and kept an eye out." He narrowed his optics at the screens. "I didn't get involved, not really. Just made sure humans weren't getting caught in the middle and made sure to be kind of a wall between them."

He moved closer, watching the feeds as she motioned to certain spots and the emergency systems that alerted her. The mech listened with curiosity, taking it all in. "But none've clocked you?"

"No? I'm never really there long enough. Some of the Seekers called me a land skimmer, so obviously no names have come up." Her attempt at a joke with an accompanied chuckle quickly died when Jazz's optics narrowed faintly at the term.

She was fully aware of the negative connotation she picked up from context clues, but Jazz was the one who grew up on Cybertron and was well aware of what was essentially a slur that they called her. She didn't really know what it meant, so she brushed it away.

"And Vo..." Her voice caught, and something in her expression shifted. "I thought interfering before you came to my reality would mess things up. I didn't want to do that, so I kind of just stayed here."

They stood quiet for a moment, and Jazz's gaze drifted toward the torn place on her chassis where a Decepticon insignia had once been.

There were a lot of places on her armor that needed a paint touch-up up but she lacked the material, but this one was by far the most notable.

She followed his line of sight and paused. Her servo lifted, brushing over the spot instinctively. She realized what he had been thinking. "You think they'd recognize me because of this?" Whoevers frame this once was, obviously was a Decepticon, right? But she hadn't thought that much about it.

Jazz nodded. "Absolutely. If the right bot catches whim of it."

Her intake pulled into something between a grimace and a breathless laugh. "It's not even there anymore."

"Exactly."

She looked away, not defensive but thoughtful. "Then maybe... maybe it's better if the Autobots don't know I'm here either."

Jazz didn't react outwardly, but something in his field pulsed. He didn't like the idea of keeping this secret longer, but he didn't argue with her either.

He needed to know more before he could try to convince her otherwise.

"Probably best I don't call ya Rhea anywhere but in private. Not until we're sure who else might be listenin'," he advised with much thought.

Rhea let out a slow vent, servos settling on her hips as she leaned against the far support beam. "So what, I need a code name now?"

"Might be smart."

She looked at him sidelong, teasingly suspicious. "You say that like it's personal experience."

Jazz gave a faint grin, looking to the side for a brief moment as if remembering something, before he admitted, "Was undercover with the 'Cons, back in the early cycles on Cyberton. Used to go by Meister."

She blinked, shocked. "Wait, what? No way."

"Yep, I got pretty high up in the ranks too. But when it started gettin' a little dangerous being actually an Autobot an' all, I dipped. Meister offlined in battle."

"You faked your death?"

"I did."

She laughed, folding her arms. "You don't even sound like a Meister."

"Yeah, well. Don't go spreadin' it around."

"No promises."

But his story had been more than something funny to share. It had been a way to get her comfortable with the idea of taking on a designation that may not be her own.

If Jazz had done it before, so could she, right?

It was why she added, more genuinely this time, "I don't know many Cybertronian designations."

He looked at her for a long moment, processors spinning in finding an answer to this.

But then his gaze drifted down again, right to that scarred metal. To everything she'd built, and rebuilt, and learned to carry.

There was so much left unsaid in that single look of consideration.

"Replay."

She blinked, confused at the sudden answer. "Replay?" Saying it out loud was more like testing how it sounded on her glossa. It was weird, but any new name that wasn't Rhea would be.

"Just the... first thing I thought of when I saw you."

She let the designation roll around once in her processors, then again. It landed somewhere unexpected–half bitter, half hopeful. Familiar in a way she couldn't name.

"Replay it is, Meister." She smiled at him.

He groaned at her teasing. "Oh, now you're just bein' mean." Truthfully, he was playing up being offended for her sake.

The exact reaction he had been reaching for spilled from her dermas as she chuckled, "You started it."

"I was bein' vulnerable."

She laughed again, and for the first time in a long while, it stayed. Even if just for a moment. "And you made it very easy to work with."

He narrowed his optics behind the visor. "Unbelievable."

She grinned with a slight nudge to his arm, "Still gonna call you Meister sometimes."

"Yeah?" He let out a low chuckle at the smirk she wore, damn proud that she finally had something against him. "I'll allow it. But only if you smile when you say it."

She turned to walk away with a little shake of her helm, brushing past him as her voice floated back over her shoulder playfully, "Better start getting used to it then, Meister."

"Ya got yourself a deal, Replay."

And here Jazz thought he'd never have to utter that designation ever again. 

Notes:

Everybody back on base: It's just so sad that Rhea's dead
Jazz w crippling guilt: yeah, yeah... so dead. anyway, activiate the groundbridge, tootles!

 

IMPORTANT! I will now be trying to do a chapter schedule of uploading on SUNDAYS!
I will do my best... I've never done this before but I'll keep yall updated if something changes. This is to prevent these long gaps inbetween where I upload a lot then get busy or go through a moment of being drained af, so hopefully it works!

on that note, guys help.
I can't find anything to read please help. I have read my fav Jazz fic (Reawakening) 50 times next to Small Fry and for some reason I really enjoy those like reincarnated as a sparkling stories. They're sooo fcking funny. I've read Behavior Patterns of Birds (seekers) so many times, Sparkling Aquired is so good, and I've recently opened one called Seekers of Terra about these three girls and it's SO FUNNY, but the author hasn't uploaded in weeks.

All of my fic authors are on hiatus rn I need recs helppp I'm withdrawing. If anyone has any good ones let me know (insert sobbing emoji here cause I'm typing this on my laptop)

Chapter 19: Riff

Summary:

"I'm always up to somethin', Smokes. Just depends whether it's classified or not."

The hum of the ground bridge was starting to feel familiar. Weeks had gone by, and Jazz visited her practically every day, whenever a mission didn't interrupt, but even then, he'd come in the middle of the night just to check up on things.

And in his mission to make sure she never felt alone again, he helped her with things she had never had guidance with.

Such as being Cybertronian.

They practiced until the sun dipped lower in the sky, until her systems began to hum with exertion simply because it was as fun as it was exhausting. To do something with someone else rather than the company of whatever lived in her helm.

"Better," he complimented, helping her with proper transformation sequences to her "grounder" alt-mode and other things alike. Getting her familiar with parts she probably didn't know how to work.

While she never passed up a lesson and never ended it early, she never failed to be exhausted by the end of one.

She groaned and fell back into the grass. "You're sadistic. It's like you have never ending energy."

"You'll thank me next time you gotta high-speed chase outta somewhere."

"Next time I need to be in a high-speed chase, I'll drop a smoke and disappear like a ghost. Boo." That last part came out a lot more tired and monotonous due to her low levels of energy, causing Jazz to chuckle.

He stood above her with a smile, watching as her optic cracked open to look up. The sun flickered through branches above, catching the angle of his plating, making him a bit shadowy as he looked down on her.

Only for Rhea Replay to stick her glossa out at him.

His smile grew wider, nudging her side with his pede before saying casually, "Race you to the ridge." This, of course, was just more practice with her alt-mode with the new things she learned, but in a fun way.

"Race the Jazz?" There was a mischievous glint in her optic.

He leaned over slightly with a smirk. "Intimidating, I know."

"Nah, I was just worried about your ego after the Jazz takes a loss from a femme who's only been doing this Cybertronian thing for nearly three decades against a mech that has many decades on her." She was only fueled further by the way his smirk had a flicker of annoyance in it, though good-natured. "Sad day it'll be when I have to fess up and let Hide know the big news. Sure Sides and Sunny won't let it go–"

She sat up immediately as he turned away from her with the shake of his helm and rev of his engine, but by the time she was up on her pedes...

He was already gone.

"Son of a–"

She launched after him, transforming into her alt and letting her tires kick up a cloud of dirt and grass before finding traction and racing off into the thick of the forest.

The forest blurred around her as she tore through it, tires spinning over the forest floor as she dodged obstacles like fallen branches and transformed mid-air to leap over sun-warmed stone. This was now a game of catch-up.

And Jazz was fast, faster than her, but he wasn't trying to win.

She caught up near the crest, lunged forward as she transformed in motion–just as they had gone over–with a sharp cry and tackled him into the tall grass. They tumbled together in a heap, rolling until they hit the soft slope and came to a breathless stop near the edge. It was more him letting her practice than anything, but fun nonetheless.

"Cheating again," she wheezed.

"You tackled me."

"You had a head-start."

Jazz smirked, visor aimed at the cloud-dappled sky from where he had fallen, "You're learnin'."

Her EM field brushed against his, pulsing and revving with energy from the competition and the thrill that came with racing.

Instead of replying, though, she was first back on her pedes and kept going.

"Who is cheatin' now?"

---

"Where are you going?" Ratchet barked from across the main atrium of the base without even looking up from the screens in front of him.

"Out."

"That's not an answer."

Jazz didn't pause in his stride as he kept walking forward casually toward the main tunnel out of this bunker-of-a-base. "Keepin' tabs on me, Hatchet?"

Smokescreen, standing near one of the tool racks, glanced up. "You've been out almost every day this week. One might think you're up to somethin'." He was more of a joke than not.

Jazz flashed him a lazy glance as he walked past, one servo flicking a casual salute. "I'm always up to somethin', Smokes. Just depends whether it's classified or not."

"...That sounds like a yes," Smokescreen called after him.

"Sounds like you need a hobby," Jazz threw back, already vanishing down the tunnel.

That earned a scoff from Ratchet, who muttered something under his breath about reckless behavior and unresolved trauma, but didn't press further. Jazz had always been slippery when he wanted to be. He knew how to fly under the radar, just enough charm.

But Mirage watched him more closely.

Jazz didn't meet anyone's gaze as he turned down the side hall, boots echoing lightly off the concrete. The tunnel that led out of the mountain base was dim, lined with motion-sensing lights that blinked on one by one as he walked.

Once he was out of sight, Smokescreen murmured under his breath, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That he's not just going for a drive?" Mirage replied, arms folded. "Yeah."

Smokescreen frowned. "They think he's coping." They only heard what they could through the others, not really knowing who this Rhea was.

"Maybe he is."

"Then why does it feel like he's chasing something?"

Outside, the desert stretched wide beneath a sky that hadn't yet decided if it was morning or evening. Gold light shimmered across the sand as Jazz peeled out from the side of the mountain, tires crunching over gravel, leaving behind a thin trail of dust.

He drove in silence until an unnatural pulse vibrated through the ground, as it always did in the agreed-upon place. Up ahead, the air shimmered like heat off asphalt and then split.

A groundbridge portal snapped open mid-desert, but not cleanly. Its circular edges flickered and bent, stuttering like broken glass held together by magnetics. Instead of the standard teal and green swirl, it glitched in and out of odd shades–green, pale blue, violet flashes, then orange, pink, static.

It popped twice like a wire sparking, stabilized just enough to stay open.

Jazz didn't hesitate or slow down.

He veered slightly, tires gripping the sand, and aimed right for the unstable vortex.

And then he was gone, the desert closed behind him, and the groundbridge sparked once more...and disappeared.

---

The console flickered again, casting blue across her faceplate in uneven waves. Static hummed in the background, quiet but persistent. The kind that crawled under plating like an itch you couldn't quite reach.

Replay muttered to herself, shifting the wires along the diagnostic panel and jabbing at a misaligned node with the edge of a tool too dull for the job.

This was bound to happen at some point, as she was still working out the kinks, but it didn't change the fact that this particular project was irritating her with its persistent problems.

Behind her, Jazz hadn't moved in nearly two hours.

He leaned back against the wall of the cave, one leg stretched out, and his other bent lazily so his arm could lean against it, his helm tilted just so, visor dimmed like he might've drifted off.

But he hadn't. She could tell.

It wasn't anything obvious like a twitch or a vent, he had no tell, unlike his unconscious tapping in other scenarios. She had seen this before, and it came from having watched him too many times now to be fooled.

Every now and then, she still found herself a little startled by how present he could be while saying nothing at all, but still, she kept working. Her digits were making quick work, movements a little sharp, and her optic-ridges furrowed the longer she stared at the error loop stuttering in front of her.

The ground bridge had hiccuped earlier, again, just as Jazz came through. She'd played it cool at the time, waving it off like a minor glitch, but now she was annoyed.

No, more than annoyed. She was trying not to be embarrassed, and that made it worse.

Another soft buzz and the code froze...again.

"Oh come on," she snapped, hitting the projector of the holo-screen as if it would fix it.

She vented slowly and tried to keep her composure, whispering out loud to herself, "This code worked yesterday. I fixed this."

Then came that little voice in her helm. "Have you tried–"

"Probably," she whispered back sharply, trying not to seem insane.

She jabbed at the screen again, resetting the output.

Another flicker when she tried the simulation program to run it, and...another rejection.

"Failsafe kicked again," came his voice, soft, from across the room.

She blinked, startled at his sudden input before looking over her shoulder. His visor had lit again to showcase his awareness, though she knew he hadn't nodded off.

"What?"

He shifted only enough to nod faintly toward the panel. "You left a loop in your exit ping. Failsafe's gettin' tripped before the portal can stabilize."

She muttered something sharp under her breath, probably a curse, and lit the ground bridge's interface back up in protest as she opened a diagnostic.

Jazz finally moved, but when he stood and stepped up beside her, it wasn't abrupt. It wasn't even particularly intentional. It was like his presence just shifted a little closer, the way shadows move when the sun tilts in a gentle and unspoken way.

He leaned in slightly, reading the output display without saying a thing.

He tapped two digits against the corner of her holo-screen. She didn't know how he always moved like that, so smoothand economical, but it never failed to draw her optic.

He gestured for her to pull up the test simulator, then nodded toward her forearm port.

"You still got the node synced?" he asked.

"Yeah," she mumbled, already opening the latch.

Her interface blinked to life. Jazz input a few lines, subtle changes in syntax, and she watched, fascinated despite herself.

After a few beats, she leaned against the table and muttered, "Thanks."

Jazz glanced at her and smiled a bit, digits continuing to work away at the screen. "Any time."

"Is coding part of being a saboteur?"

"Infiltration has its tech aspects."

"I see."

The casual conversation fell quiet as they fell into a rhythm again, her watching as he showed her how to clean up the output. His movements were fluid, digits light across the code before he let her take over the commands once he had the parameters set, just watched as she tested the new cycle.

Thankfully, it ran clean.

She vented slowly. It wasn't relief, exactly, but rather just pressure unwinding in her chassis.

But strangely enough, she could feel his own relief and content...

It was what caused her to finally ask the question that's been on her processors for a while out of curiosity. "Could you... tell?"

"Hm?" He tilted his helm at her.

"That I was frustrated? I can often feel... your field. Is mine..."

Jazz shifted his weight slightly, leaning one elbow on the edge of the table. "I can feel your field," he admitted.

Replay winced. "Is it bad?" For lack of a better word, she just didn't want to be overbearing with something she didn't understand. She only just discovered how distracting it could be.

"Just a little loud. But I don't mind it."

"Frag," she muttered, turning away with the hunch of her shoulder-plates. "Is it always like that?"

He considered his answer for a moment before telling her, "You're actually pretty good at keeping your signature down. Like you do it instinctively, even if you didn't know what you were doing. So don't worry about anyone pinning your location with that."

That got her to glance back, because she wasn't worried about that, as much of an assurance as it was now that she considered it. No, she was more embarrassed to clarify, "But not my field."

"Not yet," he told her. "That's a bit different."

She looked... mildly horrified. "So you've just been feeling every mood swing I've had for weeks?"

His visor tilted like a shrug, chuckling a bit, "Could've been worse. I've had field training next to Sideswipe."

She snorted. "That's a low bar."

Jazz finally smiled. "You asked."

A silence fell again, more comfortable this time, and they let it sit.

Then, gently, "I could teach you." That got her to look right at him. "To restrict them, they won't be gone but it's like turning down the volume."

He chuckled when she nodded eagerly.

"Alright." He gestured for her to sit. "First thing. Don't think of it like something you shut off. That's not how it works. Your EM field's not a light switch. It's more like... venting."

She looked skeptical. "I'm gonna be bad at this."

"You said that about calibrating your joints last week, and you haven't faceplanted since Wednesday."

"That was one time."

"Was it?"

She narrowed her optics. "You're enjoying this."

He didn't deny it, but he also didn't stop teaching.

And that, she figured, was kind of the point.

She sat cross-legged on the cool stone floor like he told her, arms loose at her sides, trying to relax. Trying being the key word.

Her pede tapped while trying to focus and do what he told her.

Then her servo twitched.

Then she looked like she was about to speak, only to catch herself and clamp her intake shut.

The effort of doing nothing might've been more exhausting than rerouting a whole power array.

Jazz, sitting across from her, didn't move at all as he explained the process here and there like some sort of guided meditation.

If Replay was all nerves and static and background processes running on triple-speed, he was the opposite.

She looked at him out of the corner of her optic. Unable to help herself, she asked, "How are you doing that?"

His smile grew. "Doing what?" But his tone revealed that he knew exactly what she was talking about.

She waved vaguely at him. "You know what"

He quirked an optic ridge. "I practiced." As if it were that simple...

She made a face and looked away, shifting restlessly again.

Jazz was a very hard bot to read when he didn't want you to read him, but she had begun to learn his little actions and feel his intentions that often told her what was truly on his processor.

That didn't stop her envy at the way he so perfectly did these things.

"It still throws me off sometimes."

"You got a lot goin' on in your processor, huh?"

Her optics slid toward him, guarded. "That obvious?"

He didn't smirk or tease, just shook his helm slightly. "Not obvious. Just familiar."

She blinked at that. It threw her a little, enough to stop her knee from bouncing. Both their processors fell back to the many weeks they spent back in her home in her other universe... The universe she refused to talk about.

Jazz sat up a bit straighter, arms resting over his thighs. "I'm gonna reach out a bit with my field. You'll feel it, but it should help settle yours. That okay?"

"I..." She was a bit nervous at that, and did want to acknowledge the way he fans seemed to kick on. "Yeah, that's okay."

With her permission, let his field unfurl slowly from its restraints.

It wasn't invasive, and it didn't press. It just... brushed. Like the edge of a breeze passing too close to ignore. It was a controlled warmth steadily grazing her own without the mech ever needing to physically touch her.

Her own field was jittery by comparison, static-laced and erratic. She hadn't realized how tense it felt until something calm was next to it. It reminded her of music, like trying to hold a tune when the radio kept skipping, and then someone tuned it.

Jazz didn't look like he was doing anything at all, but she could feel the pull that was a lot like a beat to settle into.

"Focus on matching it," he instructed softly. "Doesn't have to be perfect. Just ease into it. Breathe."

"I don't even breathe anymore..." Venting was more like circulating air through their frames to keep from overheating, amongst other things, but it wasn't as necessary as breathing was for humans–though one could get too hot and cause severe damage to their internal systems.

He chuckled. "You know what I mean."

It was hard. Her thoughts didn't slow just because she wanted them to. They just bounced around with softer edges now, like the urgency was dulled only slightly.

Her frame stopped twitching and her shoulders eased, even if her processor kept looping.

Jazz didn't push her to do more than that, as this was only her first time trying to bring in a natural instinct that Cybertronians could tap into. Even humans had it, some more sensitive than others to this 6th sense, but being so sensitive to it raised its own problems.

While humans had words to communicate how they felt, express their thoughts, ease others feelings...

Cybertronians could do so without words.

So he kept his field steady in a kind of baseline rhythm to work from, his field like hands cupping over her ears to get her to tune everything else out.

LIke his energy was pressing against hers to force the anxious and restless ripples to slow... and to draw back in like an ocean tide. But her field was scattered fragments of emotion bleeding off in discordant notes.

She was trying to respond to the feeling of his own field and regulate her own, her frequency rising and following, inconsistent and raw.

So he gently pressed in more around her, like a bassline to catch her.

He felt another ripple against it, more of a feeling rather than a physical thing, translating her surprise at the contact, but she quickly adjusted and relaxed.

The moment stretched, until slowly she began to find that center, and her field turned toward him in almost...awareness.He met her rhythm like a hum under breath or salt on the wind, gentle assurance and wordless guidance in compressing her field as much as possible.

His tempo remained like a brushed snare and warm brass. Jazz was always deliberate, seemingly effortlessly and velvet-soft in the spaces between pulses.

But he couldn't help but feel the bursts of what could only be described as sharp thrums of guitar strings, sudden swells, drums and pianos that were restless and reaching.

He melted into the sound that could only be heard through one's spark as their field interpreted the spark resonance.

But then, in all of his listening and all of her tuning, something strange happened.

Her field suddenly slipped, and her wild rhythm curled into his easy cadence, and instead of clashing, they found a groove between them, met in a riff.

It wasn't planned yet blended so perfectly you'd never think it was two songs playing at once.

It felt... natural.

Even Replay had felt it, her muted confusion giving the soft impression of, oh, maybe this is what it's supposed to feel like.

That this was simply how it worked when one got the frequency right. This was all foreign to her.

But Jazz felt much different, although he didn't show it. He didn't physically react, and she thought she imagined that pulse of surprise from him.

After a few minutes of remaining in a calmly shared silence of their riff, she peeked one optic open with eagerness. "Am I doing it?"

"You are." He grinned at her but was still able to feel her happiness, much more minutely, that came from his confirmation. "It'll take some practice to learn how to hold that unconsciously, but you've got the rhythm of it."

She let out a slow vent and let herself lean back a little, plating softening as her internal systems stopped buzzing like angry bees.

And just when his optics shut, hers peeked open in curiosity about his reaction. Something he didn't realize she had noticed, because not once had anyone ever been able to read him.

Until...

Hm.

---

The mountain doors rumbled open early in the afternoon, the sensors catching dust off Jazz's frame before he even crossed the threshold. He rolled in with the usual hum of tires and transformed mid-stride with that same fluid ease he always had, like his joints were made of music.

"Back already?" Ratchet muttered from the console, not looking up as he worked.

"Miss me that much, Doc?" Jazz replied jokingly, not slowing his pace. All he received was a scoff in return.

He wasn't covered in dust. No dents. No scorch marks. No cargo. No report. Just... back.

Prowl stood near the bridge, arms folded, visor tracking him like a sniper's scope. He observed the mech, noting the lack of dents, scorch marks, anything that might've indicated training or some sort of altercation. He had no cargo and no report, so it wasn't some secret mission. He was second in command, so obviously, there were no Spec Op missions currently out, because he'd know.

What he didn't know was where Jazz seemed to disappear off to when no one was looking. One klik, he was in the room, the next he was gone.

He never asked for a ground-bridge, so he couldn't have gone far...

"You left without logging destination data again."

Jazz smiled without showing any denta. "I wasn't aware I needed clearance to stretch my legs, Prowler."

"Prowl," he corrected. "And you weren't out for twenty kliks, Jazz. You were gone for entire beginning of this cycle or, er- day. I've noticed that this is becoming a habit."

"And here I am, all in one piece."

"That's not the point."

"It's the only point that matters, Prowler."

Prowl stared and Jazz kept his cool. The tension between them hovered like fog, neither combative nor casual, but it was like testing their wills. One who hid something and one who knew it. Neither were ready to lose the battle and surrender.

Even Bumblebee, leaning against the platform support beam behind them, flicked his doorwings slightly as he eyed the conversation as casually as possible.

"You're deflecting," Prowl said finally.

Jazz grinned. "Say's who?"

And then, as seamless as a tempo shift, he stepped past him and looked toward the raised platform that hung like scaffolding above the common floor. The stairs up to it were human-sized, but this existed because the base was originally designed for human operation.

It's new use? A rec area for the human younglings constantly on base, even before this multiverse ordeal.

Cora's laugh echoed first, then Calix's excited shout, and Jaxon groaning something like "no fair, you cheated!" as the screen above them flashed another chaotic round of digital explosions.

Miko, leaning halfway off the railing, shouted, "YES! Eat my dust!"

Jack sat beside her, more relaxed, flicking through character options on the controller while Raf tried to explain something about frame rates and lag to Cora, though she didn't listen because she just wanted to know how to win without actually having to learn tactics. She was rather impatient.

"Soundwave would've won," she argued.

"Cons aren't in this game," Miko replied distastefully, earning a rough pinch from Jack. "Ow!"

"He should be."

Jazz moved closer, tilting his helm back, visor catching the screen light. In favor of changing the subject to lighten the little girl's mood, he told them, "Y'all better be savin' me a turn."

Cora popped up over the couch, excited to hear Jazz's voice. "You missed our game of Mario Kart earlier!"

"That's 'cause no one told me game night started at dawn." His reply came swiftly.

"You were gone," Jack said simply.

Jazz's dermas quirked up slightly with the tilt of his helm, "So I've heard."

"We playing the next round or what?" Jaxon changed the subject back to the task at hand, pointing at the TV screen.

"You're on."

---

When Jazz had returned, he was surprised to find that the ground-bridge controls were operated by no one. But he figured it to be her new Bridge Engagement & Exit Protocol, B.E.E.P for short. It was a system she could pre-set to automatically activate and deactivate the groundbridge at specified intervals–which was rather useful for drop-offs, unmanned transports, sneaky solo missions, and apparently wandering off when Jazz was expecting to see her on the other side.

Jazz worried only slightly, that he was willing to admit. His processor told him that this was her field test after numerous stim tests, but he wandered the island anyway.

The relief he felt went unnoticed as he found her halfway up the cliffs, crouched near the edge with her servo outstretched, digits brushing dew off the moss. The air remained most, and the distant rumble from the grey sky above told him the sky was soon to begin leaking.

She didn't notice him at first... And he could've said her designation, the one he had given her in case anybody was to listen.

But instead, he leaned against the sloping rock as her voice broke the stillness.

"No, it doesn't go like that," she murmured, frowning. "You said counterclockwise. That was counterclockwise. Well, counter to my clockwise."

Jazz tilted his helm, visor brightening slightly as he listened to her talk aloud.

She laughed softly to herself, optics narrowed in mock irritation. "Don't be smug."

It wasn't the first time he'd caught her talking like someone else was present. He didn't ask, but he watched, the way he always did. Like a protective presence lingering nearby, gathering pieces to help when she was unwilling to share.

Eventually, he felt it was a good time to take a step, purposefully hitting a loose rock that clattered, announcing his presence.

Her helm whipped around only for her shoulders to slump upon the realization of, "Oh, it's just you."

"Jus' me?  Darlin', I'm not sure I'd take that over the short jokes."

Her smile made his spark buzz in his chassis, though he didn't indicate that outwardly. "I could go back to those if you'd wish, shortstack."

"You wound me." He pressed a servo over his spark in offence as she reached his side. "Ya know, I'm taller than you now so tha short jokes don't exactly apply no more." Him standing beside her reinforced this point.

"That's fair."

He took her surrender as a victory, turning as she walked past him back toward the thicket of trees along the cliffside.

Until... "Come on. I wanna show you something, Meister."

His helm fell with a slow shake, biting his bottom derma that kept his chuckles of disbelief in his vocalizer. "That is not nice, darlin'."

"You'll live." The grin in her tone was unmistakable, and mark his words, he was figuring out something to retaliate sooner rather than later. Jazz had quite the habit of giving out nicknames, and he would not be outmatched in this.

They walked the trail in their comfortable silence, damp grass whispering beneath their pedes and the trees overhead weeping faint droplets onto the earth.

Jazz stayed a step behind, watching how her wings flexed slightly with each stride. It seemed like an unconscious movement, like a limb learning itself. He noted this to himself and continued on.

The sun was just beginning to slip below the ridgeline, casting the island in a copper hue, when Jazz found himself trailing behind her through a winding path of moss and worn stone. By then, droplets had started to fall, sounding awfullyloud against their metal plating but thankfully blending seamlessly with the winds whispering through the trees.

They crested a rise, the cliff smoothing into a long slope that overlooked a village tucked beside the sea that crashed withthe slowly approaching storm. He followed her to the edge where she crouched, optics on the town below.

"There," she said breathlessly with a small nod, as if she were letting him in on a secret. "Told you I had something to show you."

Jazz tilted his helm, looking down at the village that didn't seem any different than the ones he'd seen before on Earth, just different architecture. "Looks like a whole lotta roofs."

She elbowed him lightly. "Come on. Look."

And he did.

"I like to people-watch," she told him, motioning toward the homes below. "Especially when it rains."

Down below, a row of colorful homes of oranges, blues and reds curled around a rocky cove, chimneys puffing lazy smoke into the grey sky. The streets gleamed with rain, and tiny human figures in bright jackets wove between buildings–kicking a ball, hauling baskets of fish, waving across balconies. A woman ducked under an awning, dragging a wide net behind her. A pair of children darted after a loose sheep that escaped when startled by thunder and a creaked open gate had it wandering free.

Jazz's visor flicked faintly as he scanned, mapping the small village.

Replay watched him with a quiet smile. "The wind. The smell. The sound of boots on wet stone. The way people move when they know each other." She gestured down toward the town. "They're very kind and hospitable people."

Jazz glanced at her, the rain catching faint glints on her cheek plating as she explained the people she had watched from a distance for years, but without interaction because of her sudden change in species.

"Y'know," she added, tone a little sly, "they've got a thing for storytelling."

"Oh yeah?"

"They pass down their stories through generations, and there is this one about a metal wanderer... A giant who lives on the cliffs that was supposedly spotted once in the '80s. A group of tourists and a few Faroe Islanders guiding them caught a glimpse of something big and silver and red moving just before a storm rolled in. Its rumoured to have been here for thousands of years, watching over them when the oceans turn fierce."

Jazz let a slow smirk rise as her mysterious tone added to her storytelling, and what it indicated went on. "Don't suppose you've seen this metal wanderer yourself?"

She tsked as if this was some big mystery. "Can't say I have. It keeps getting away when the clouds roll in, but maybe one say I'll catch my shadow." They laughed at that before she went on, still playfully ging with the bit. "The wanderer appears when the weather shifts, kinda like a warning. Or perhaps a wish, they say."

"Quite the folktale."

"Only the coolest ones become myths."

He chuckled low in his throat, optics lingering on the rain-slick rooftops.

"They still look for you?"

"Not really. I'm old news, but the stories stick because of tourists wanting to know the culture. Kids leave offerings like shells and driftwood shaped like wings, though."

He was quiet for a while, letting that last part linger.

Unknowingly, she had created an opening in something she had long since dodged.

"You know," he said finally, "you'd be a hit with the kids."

A beat of silence passed... Then, like she'd been waiting for the right moment, she asked, "How are the kids?" As always, she asked that same question but...

Jazz shifted slightly. "Adjustin'. Fowler's got them stayin' on base for now. Calix is still stuck to Bluestreak like a second shadow. Cora's rearranged half the rec room and is determined to win in this racing game against Miko."

Her dermas curved up happily.

"Bee got Raf to bring some games like Shoots and Slides?" Jazz knew it didn't sound quite right.

But she understood, correcting with a smile, "Shoots and Ladders."

The mech nodded. "Yeah, she's beatin' him pretty good at it. Keeps a tally on a paper stuck to the wall like some sorta display."

That made her laugh, and yet a soft ache was buried in the sound.

"Jaxon got into the medbay yesterday. He's a bit of a racer when it comes to sliding around on his socks and seeing how far he can get ahead of Miko and Jack, and he took a bit of a bang to the head, but he's all good. Ratch gave him an earful for being so careless, but he didn't listen, of course."

Her servo covered her intake as she laughed again, optics crinkling–a human habit of covering her laughter as though it would seal the sound. She kept a lot of those even when they were unnecessary, like stretching her arms overhead, yawning, rocking back and forth on her heels, even sighing. All of these human mannerisms were technically not really needed by Cybertronians but were not so easily cast aside.

He liked them anyway, because they told her story without giving anything away. Something you'd have to know to reallysee, which, as of current, was only him.

"They miss you." Jazz grasped at his set-up opening with a gentler tone.

The laughter dimmed. Not all the way, but he never failed to notice that way she folded it down and tucked it somewhere out of reach whenever he tried to sway the subject back to her past life, what had happened, or going back.

Because going back would mean facing it. She wasn't ready.

"They're safe," she told him, not looking at the mech when she spoke.

"They are," he agreed.

She didn't ask more, he didn't push any further, and the rain filled in the quiet again.

They sat there for a while, just people-watching, optics set on the gentle bustle of the village below filled the quiet, a language of its own–broom on stone, gulls crying, laughter from windows, soft singing from somewhere unseen.

She tilted her chin, and his patience prevailed as she changed the subject to ease the weight that hung heavy the more the rain collected. "That couple owns the bakery. They make rye bread in the mornings and flat cakes in the evening."

"Can't say I've tried it, but it sounds delicious."

Replay grinned. "Y'know, I can't say I have either."

Then she pointed toward another set of figures, one being an older woman wrapped in a shawl, slowly walking with a cane, flanked by what looked like two sons helping her across a puddle. "See what I mean? Kindness prevails here. It's nice." Her voice was soft, and her restricted EM field brushed him unconsciously as if wanting to share the moment.

"They remind me of Polyhex," Jazz remembered quietly, smile still faint at the edge of his voice.

That had caught her attention, and she turned her helm toward him, intrigued. "Polyhex?"

He nodded slightly. "Back at the beginning of the war there were community rings, all cut into the cliff sides. They shared ration points and had this... knowing of each other, like some unspoken agreement ta help each other out in scary times. Didn't matter if you were of their own or not."

And she listened, soaking in every bit of information he dropped with nothing but curiosity and the warm feeling of knowing Jazz was willing to share something like this. She wanted to know more about Cybertron but was aware it didn't bring up the best of memories.

He didn't push her to remember any farther than she was ready, so why push him?.

"That's why I like them," She brought it back full circle, pulling him from saddened memories within his helm he trailed off to, noting this not because he frowned or his field gave him away but simply because a part of her could read what he never showed. "They watch out for each other."

But then something moved near the tree line, interrupting the moment.

They both stiffened for a breath, Replay not noticing the way Jazz stepped a fraction of a step in front of her when they whipped around because she was busy worrying over something else.

Jazz followed her gaze to a struggling gull tangled in fishing line, one wing dragging.

She was already standing by the time he pieced together what it was.

She knelt beside the bird with careful servos given how much bigger she was than the creature.

His enhanced hearing allowed him to note her soft tone as she murmured things only she and the creature could hear, or so they thought. With slow precision, she worked the threads loose from the frightened creature, her digits soft to brush their damp feathers that panicked.

It took off a moment later after she freed it, wings awkward but free.

When the bird took off in a rush of wings, she stood to her full height and craned her neck to watch its flight until it disappeared against the thundering sky to find cover.

He could've followed her gaze, but he couldn't help but watch the wings on her back lift slightly as Earth's feathery creature flew away. Not fully, just a little twitch as if responding on instinct.

She turned, expression unreadable, and walked past him. "Ya coming?"

He let the corner of his intake curl into a smile. "Yeah," he murmured. "Wouldn't miss it."

---

It started as a lesson. Another midnight run, far from the trails the humans used by day, their alt-modes winding through the wet woods where no roads reached. Replay's form glinted silver-blue in the starlight, sleek lines catching the flash of moonlight between the branches.

Jazz led the way for the first stretch, nimble and deliberate in easing her into the terrain and taking it slow.

At least, at first.

That was until she bolted past him without warning, and he let out a sharp bark of laughter and gave chase.

They tore through the underbrush like it wasn't even there, Replay darting between trees with a speed that was almost instinctive now.

Jazz followed, the smooth hum of his engine threaded with the rhythm of night creatures and the rush of wind. Branches clawed overhead as the path was a blur of roots and rock, but she moved with wild joy.

:: Not bad, but ya better watch your cornering, or someone might just slip by. ::

She had heard his playful comm, she just didn't answer.

Instead, she kicked off a ledge in a burst of light, her frame twisting midair before she hit the ground again in a smooth roll. He watched it happen with a mixture of pride, as she was getting the hang of this after what had turned into two months of training, and irritation because he hated losing.

For her, though... He might just make an exception.

:: One might just slip by, was it? ::

Or perhaps not.

:: Showoff. ::

The mountain rose higher with every sharp turn, the forest thinning as they neared the ridgeline. Replay pushed forward, clearly thrilled to be ahead.

He laughed again, unable to help it, and poured on the speed. They zigzagged higher, the sound of their engines echoing back at them from the cliffs, growing fainter and fainter beneath the pulse of their race.

Then she reached the summit.

Replay transformed mid-sprint and skidded to a stop on two pedes, stumbling slightly as she planted herself at the edge. Her frame pitched forward, just for a moment, and she threw her weight back with a sharp intake of static.

She didn't fall, but she didn't move away from the edge either.

Jazz crested the ridge not even seconds later, transforming with a soft thud and smiling in exhilaration after her.

But he stopped upon seeing her on the edge, wings twitching slightly with a kind of tension he'd only seen when she was deep in thought–or in unspoken pain.

The cliff dropped into pure shadow where there was no sound but the distant hush of the ocean, too far and too far down to hear clearly or see. The wind tore past them in hard, sharp gusts that were cold and sharp and hollow.

But what she looked at?

Above them were so many stars. So many that it almost hurt to look at. It was deep and velvet black, pinpricked with firelight that stretched and breathed and shimmered.

It shone down on her as she leaned forward again. Not dangerously, not quite, but enough to make his spark tighten as he approached her cautiously.

Her optics were fixed on the stars as her frame trembled not from fear or some sort of child, but the ache of desire.

And once more, his optics flew to her back with his careful steps forward, watching the way her wings shifted slightly, twitching with an ache. The barest flex of hydraulics, like they knew something she didn't. The wind caught them, and she flared them slightly, the motion instinctual. Almost like they were alive.

Her EM field, still undisciplined in moments of unfocus, reached for the air around her. It was like standing too close to a bonfire and the flickers of emotion sparking off her in waves struck him, leaving only what she felt. Curiosity. Hunger. Yearning.

They had gotten quite good at communicating without words, and her impressions were reading loud and clear.

She wanted to fall.

To step off that ledge now that the shadows hid what lay below her.

Or perhaps... what she really wanted was to fly.

Jazz's expression didn't shift, but something in his chassis did at the feelings her spark was giving off like some sort ofSOS.

He knew enough about Seekers to know he didn't know nearly enough. Vos had always been its own thing, designed by Seekers, for Seekers. It was a city impossible to navigate without wings, upside down and designed for flight on Cybertron. Its culture, its instincts, its rituals... he'd never been let in. Never needed to be. Grounders had no place amongst Vos nor its culture.

But Repl–Rhea wasn't from Vos. She wasn't even fully Seeker, not by their standards, and yet she had the coding, the wings, the ache.

A triple-changer dropped into a frame never meant to be half-learned, and half of herself was something Jazz lacked the ability or knowledge to teach her.

She stood there in silence, and Jazz stood behind her, quietly.

He didn't speak, nor did he try to pull her away from the edge.

Just watched her.

And the stars above.

And the wings behind her.

And the way she stared, as if the sky itself were calling.

And the way her pedes twitched, wanting to step off to give herself a chance to fall, to eventually fly.

He stepped forward and reached for her servo, and Replay didn't startle. Her digits merely curled against his gently and accepted his wordless comfort, and he felt her field pulse once with warmth as they returned to the calming melting of their melodies to their riff–something they were getting quite comfortable with feelings and hearing as of recent.

And as she ached, he calculated and planned.

For Jazz's least favorite feeling had returned: the inability to help, not for lack of trying, but because he was sidelined by something beyond his reach. 

Notes:

Jazz: I'm not up to anything, why would you think that?
Prowl: When are you not?
Jazz: ... fair.

Chapter 20: Fall With Me, Fly With-

Summary:

"I think I'm makin' a habit outta catchin' you."

Fear has a way of messing with one's mind. Had a way of throwing up walls against the possible.

It was much like the trick of the eye. Perhaps like staring at a far away castle, so taunting in all of its greatness and glory, only to see a giant bird land on the top of the tower.

Only it wasn't a giant bird, and the closer you got, the smaller it seemed and you realized it was a game of forced perspective, reality warped to appear one way when it was really another.

The wind touched the field like it knew the shape of her. Wide and flat beneath a yawning blush, it stretched into the edge of dawn, and somewhere between the whistle of grass and the chirps of the birds in the early morning,

Jazz stood with his servos crossed over his chassis, his visor catching the morning light from the edge of the treeline where he leaned, watching the red femme, who hadn't yet realized his arrival, murmur to herself.

She seemed to hunch in on herself, pondering aloud about something that clearly bothered her, judging by the way her finials curled down and her wings drooped. He had tuned in a bit too late to pick up what might be bothering her, but he had some guesses.

But something had captured her attention.

Something colored like a sunset, oranges and yellows in a blur of color, flapped right in front of her, causing her finialsand wings to perk up, optics widening.

A butterfly, if his sensors weren't betraying him.

Yeah, fear had a way of making one hesitate. He knew that.

It was something he had overcome early on in the war to ensure his survival, because a moment of hesitance or even letting your enemies see the fear in your optics could make all the difference. It was vulnerable and something that washard to overcome.

He knew that better than anyone.

His helm tilted as she stood and followed the butterfly, as if guiding her to the steep rock hidden under a massive tree along the edge of the cliff, trailing to a higher point but hidden by the greenery. Though one would never be able to tell it was a rock with the way the yellows, oranges, vermillions, and indigos blurred against it.

Jazz had gotten particularly good at pushing past his fear to do what was necessary.

Or... rather, maybe he didn't push past it, but rather...

Her much bigger servo reached forward toward the butterfly as it reunited with its colors, a single digit gently reaching to graze it, maybe hoping it would find a perch if she were gentle enough–gentle like a human's touch only for the butterflies to flutter away from the wall as she made contact, surrounding her in what could've been hundreds of them as they flew away.

But she craned her neck around as if to get a glimpse of them all, optics widened in what could only be described as awe, wings fluttering behind her quite happily as one graced itself against the tip of her still outstretched digit.

Jazz smiled her way with a thousand unspoken things.

But what he did say startled her all the same.

"Today's lesson is flight," he said, all smooth confidence, like he wasn't absolutely winging this plan.

His voice startled the butterfly the same, and it flew away and toward its fleeing friends in time for her to turn and give him an incredulous look. "...Wait. What?"

She stood there, tall and unsure, armor glinting with the tentative shimmer of new polish and old self-doubt. Her tires still hummed from the warm-up laps–racing, she could do. Tight turns, jumps, burnouts on the grass, dirt, and mountain with a laugh stuck in her throat.

But flight? That she had yet to conquer.

He nodded, as if that was obvious. "Yup. C'mon. Time to embrace your Seeker side."

Her optics narrowed. "I can't even transform into that form yet." She had tried, and after continuing to transform into a car, her frustration led to her quitting every time.

"That's why it's a lesson," he smirked.

He didn't tell her he had no guidebook for this, though that was obvious. Unfortunately for both of them, there were no Seeker training manuals. This is a way of life, and he didn't exactly have the wings to live by it. But he could fake it until she flew.

"It's in there," he said gently, stepping closer. "You feel it, right? Under your plating? That itch? That pull just behind your spark?" He sure could feel the ache himself.

She looked away as the grass whispered against her legs.

"It's not logic. It's instinct. Get outta that helm of yours." His grin turned feline.

She vented but humored him and closed her optics. The sun pressed warm against her faceplates, and for a second, she thought she felt it–that hum just beneath her chassis, like something curled and waiting.

"Try movin' your wings," Jazz offered, his tone dipped in encouragement.

"I don't think I can." She could. He had seen it. The issue is that she was overthinking it, letting outside factors weigh in on doing this on command.

That he could help with.

"You can. Trust me."

She tried. She really tried. Jaw locked, optic-ridges pulled together. Her whole frame went taut with effort, like straining to remember a song she'd only ever heard in a dream. Then–

A twitch. The barest flicker. A shiver down her back that made the wings she wore flutter much like the butterflies she had just been admiring.

If possible, his grin stretched wider, and it was so genuine. Happy for her. "That's what I'm talkin' about. She's a natural."

She blinked, almost startled by the noise, but she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her intake. "Barely moved."

"But you did. Can't tell you how many Seekers never even get that far on their first try."

"And how many Seekers do you know? " she teased.

"... Details, details," he said brightly, waving her off because the answer was: none that weren't Decepticons. That fact he had made up out of thin air.

She laughed, though, and he grinned like he was drinking that sound.

He stepped back then, spreading his arms like wings. "Now, pay close attention. This is ancient Cybertronian air technique, passed down through generations of totally unqualified instructors..."

His arms fell up and down, as if showing her the motions she needed to do with her own.

But she couldn't help but snort, sounding like. "Are you– You realize Seekers don't–"

"Flight is mental, sweetspark. Gotta believe you can fly before your thrusters ever kick in."

She was still smiling. This mech was ridiculous.

"So," he said, serious again but soft. "I've seen Seekers get up on thrusters first. Since you're havin' a bit of trouble, why don't we try firin' those up?"

Her gaze turned toward the dormant thrusters near her calves, part of her pedes, as she wiggled them. "...Once I had activated them, but not before I went flying off the hill-side. I didn't try again." She cringed at the memory. She picked rocks out of her struts and nooks and crannies around her wings. It was a pain in the aft to get it all out, looking like a bear trying to scratch itself on a tree.

He chuckled low. "Probably just your spark tellin' your brain to get outta the way."

She went quiet, thoughtfully thinking about this as her vents steadied. The sun was higher now, wind pressing harder. There was static in the air, like the world was waiting for her to decide..

"You ready to try again?" he asked.

She nodded. Just once.

Jazz stepped back, still holding the air with those ridiculous wing-arms she was meant to copy with her own wings as they went through the motions, and murmured, "Go on then, darlin'. Show me what you got."

---

Replay stood near the rise of the plateau of a cliffside, wings flicking behind her, thrusters twitching like nerves buzzing in her circuits.

Jazz watched her as the day went on, coaching her with his words, but she was still trying to fly with logic. With pressure. With expectation.

Flight wasn't math. It wasn't command sequences or code. It was pure instinct. Fall first, trust later mentality. Not that Jazz knew that himself, but similar feelings came with being a saboteur, so he could relate that much.

"Try again," was all he said after another failed attempt. Just enough to nudge her forward, not knock her off her edge.

She started walking again with a pace that screamed uncertainty. The ground here didn't offer much more than craggy ridges, uneven outcroppings, loose shale that cracked under her pedes, and there were plenty of rocks in her way. There was not enough flat space to build proper momentum, and it was nowhere to stretch fully open, so they relied on her thrusters to get in the air, with her inability to use the third transformation coding that gave her those wings.

Jazz had a theory. He believed that if she just got up in the air, instinct would take over. She's letting the gravity weigh her down and she's overthinking it, which leads to her alt of a Cybertonian-design car.

What she needed was to fall, but she needed to get some momentum in the air first so gravity felt it had no effect on her.

So, Jazz encouraged her to go on with the goal simply to get in the air, telling her no more than that so her processors wouldn't overthink it.

He told her she needed speed, thrusters not enough to push that instinct to its edge.

And she ran.

Clumsily, but running nonetheless, posture too tight and wings locked as she stumbled over things in her path that slowed her down.

Still, her thrusters coughed to life in short bursts, sputtering flame and heat like a heartbeat stammering through her metal. Jazz jogged beside her, letting her find the rhythm, not pushing, but just keeping pace. Wind tangled in the edges of his plating, light bounced off her armor like she was already catching the sun.

Her frame buoyed by the thrust beneath her pedes, a half-hover, then a full one. She had gotten good at that after the first fifty times of falling right back down to nearly faceplanting, but Jazz never let that happen. He'd catch her by the back of her armor, and they'd go again, so she never truly fell.

She wasn't high–barely more than a body's length above the rock–but she wasn't touching the ground either.

She looked down, trying so hard to focus and track her pedes as she kept her momentum. Her arms were stiffly in the air beside her, waving every now and then but keeping a clumsy balance as she gained more and more speed and altitude.

"Okay, okay. I can do this."

"You said that the last fifteen times."

"You could try something helpful like encouragement," She muttered lowly to herself, to the voice that she noticed seemed to speak less whenever Jazz was around.

And ahead–

The edge.

Jazz saw it but didn't say anything, because the warning would not only throw her off, but he knew she needed to go over. Because some things couldn't be explained in words. Some truths had to be felt.

If she fell, maybe her instincts would finally grab the wheel, and she'd get that taste of flight.

His theory was a bit of a risk... He'd never admit out loud, or at least to Prowl, that he was indeed reckless.

But an important clarification that came to be noted was that he was reckless with his own life.

Jazz would never intentionally put anyone, especially her, in harm's way for the sake of a theory, even if he was confident.

It was why he ran with her, ready at a moment's notice to step in and leap right over that edge recklessly and take whatever blow was coming their way. Especially now that he had full control of being able to help where it counted–the option to stupidly leap off cliffs with her.

He didn't shout as she floated forward on momentum alone, just enough lift to drift, just enough not to stop. And she hadn't even noticed her wings naturally shift into proper flight position, catching the air under her as it gusts against her.

And then the next second, the ground was gone, and she had been so focused on her pedes that when the blur around the edges of her vision unfocused, suddenly the ocean was all she could see.

Below her, the cliffs dropped off into a violent churn of tide and jagged stone. Waves smashed upward in great heaving bursts, shattering against the island's edge like they were trying to climb it. The fog was thicker here, dragged low over the sea like torn cloth, curling between the rocks and pulled taut by the wind. It looked like the sky had fallen into the sea and was trying to crawl back out.

Replay stilled midair as her armor clamped tight to her. Her vents slammed shut, as if holding her breath she no longer needed.

Drowning, drowning, drowning–

Her thrusters stuttered, and for a moment–just a moment–she dropped.

Not enough to fall.

Enough to feel like she had.

Jazz saw the panic flash through her like lightning, felt her lose that control of her field like she had practiced, and felt her fear. Her wings spasmed, sharp and erratic, and her frame jerked into a chaotic spin. She twisted herself back, optics blown wide, desperate not to look down again.

But he saw it.

The fear.

Not of flying, but of the ocean. Of drowning.

And everything seemed to click into place with the puzzle pieces he already had in place. He didn't even have time to recall her brothers or Rowan because he was too busy leaping for her.

One leap forward, and his servo snapped out–caught her just as her digits scraped the edge. His grip found her elbow joint, locked tight, and pulled. It wasn't exactly graceful, given her frame was deadweight from panic, wings rigid and locked, but he braced and yanked and held.

All over again, that feeling of drowning, that imaginary scene of his servo waiting at the surface to pull her to safety. He waited and waited, but if she sank too low, he'd reach in and–

He yanked them both up to safety, and they both crashed down hard.

Her knees hit dirt first, one servo catching herself. His shoulder scraped against the rock, visor blinking in static.

Neither of them spoke. There was only the sound of their vents sputtering and cycling in unsteady gasps.

She looked at the ground like it was the only thing real.

And still, Jazz just watched her. Watched the way her wings trembled and sagged back. The way her thrusters dimmed like a flame retreating into a wick as she retreated back into her shell.

The way she refused to meet the sea again.

She wasn't afraid of flying.

She was afraid of falling into something she couldn't escape.

Of what it meant to not come back.

He was no stranger to losing those you held dear. Primus, he had been there when they both had to watch Rowan–

But he knew the things it did to you, and it wasn't always the easiest to come back from. You could be you, but things like that leave permanent marks on one's soul that'd never go away.

It wasn't just a matter of overcoming fear, but learning to live with it.

He let that settle in his spark like an ember.

Jazz stood slowly, dusted his arm off, and offered her his servo again.

Her optics flicked up, and after a beat, she took it. Now the only thing between them, despite this physical touch, was this air... It lingered, like a promise that he'd stay until she found her wings.

And even then? Jazz was certain he'd leap recklessly after her just to witness her deserving happiness as if the clouds would catch him.

He missed the Rhea from before, and he was all but certain he'd never seen her truly happy with herself even then. What a sight that must be. He'd give anything to see it.

And Jazz, ever so good at it, smiled like the entire freak-out had been nothing. He didn't dare embarrass her or let her feel the shame of failure. Instead, he said, "Let's try again."

---

When Jazz had left her cave, Replay was recharging beneath a half-collapsed overhang, back to the stone, vents slow and steady, wings pulled tight around her frame. Moonlight barely filtered through the high fog, brushing silver across her armor like a blessing. She looked peaceful, finally.

Jazz had told her he'd head back to base through his groundbridge, and she hadn't intended on falling into recharge, but all this training was taking a toll on her systems.

But he hadn't said when.

Instead, his headlights cut a narrow path through the dark as he crept back up the rise to the spot they'd trained on every morning for flight practice, in between the other training she was getting from him when he could sneak it in.

Jazz stared thoughtfully at the rocky path they had begun to make from the back-and-forth running they had done. It veered around bigger rocks, craters in the ground, and other things prohibiting the momentum she needed to take off.

He looked around, nothing but the sound of crickets and the briskness of the night around him as he picked up a stone. Then another. And another.

He was still stacking stone when the sun broke over the ridge.

And she had been surprised to find him in the morning without the need of a groundbridge, endlessly confused and curious with Jazz until she stopped mid-step when she saw it.

A stretch of rough-stacked rock lined the plateau like a scar carved by purpose. It stretched in a long, crude sort of path, one that hadn't been there yesterday.

A runway.

Jazz had been up all night building it.

Jazz stood near the edge of it, arms folded, helm tilted slightly toward the ocean like he was admiring the horizon, "Guess you got no excuse now. Nothing in your way." Except for her fear.

But he was determined to teach her what he did with it.

She didn't answer, just stared at it–then at him.

"Oh, and..." He then pulled a coil of rope from his subspace and tossed it up in one servo. "Got this from base." A grin. "We're gonna try somethin'."

---

The rope clipped to a bracket near her shoulder joint.

He gripped the other end tightly, unable to transform while being the only thing holding her to the Earth. Not that he minded the disadvantage.

They faced the new runway, and his confidence was enough to overshadow her relenting uncertainty. "Don't hold back."

She didn't.

Dust kicked under Jazz's pedes as he ran with her, wind screaming by her audials as her wing jarred back. Her thrusters activated with a hiccup, but this time they didn't sputter out–that came from all their practice.

She rose and propelled forward as Jazz hauled on the runway beside her, engine snarling from his frame with the force it took to keep up. Rope taut, arms straining, but he didn't let go. Couldn't.

She rose higher and her frame buzzed with it–spark flaring, Seeker protocols screamed awake in her systems as she hit the edge, and didn't stop.

"Don't look down," she hissed to herself, but the wind was already under her plating, already clawing at her seams like a second skin, already lifting her.

The rope slipped free when her slight confidence dared her to. And she did it before she could overthink it, like he had told her.

The moment snapped, and for a breathless moment, she was weightless–suspended between motion and memory, between ground and sky.

It left only wind.

It roared past her helm, dragged its claws through her seams, tugged at every hesitation welded into her frame. Her wings hadn't fully extended. Her systems flared warning after warning, but none of it mattered.

Because something older than fear flickered to life in her spark, the only thing keeping her from looking down at what might make her falter.

Don't look down. Don't look down.

Something buried in her code like a ghost rose from the dead, and her plating shifted without thought. Internal mechanisms screamed into motion. Panels along her back snapped open, trailing vapor as pressure realigned. It was like something inside her remembered how to become something else.

Wind bit harder. Her arms tucked, her core twisted, her form stretched thin and forward–longer, sharper, faster.

A jet now, sleek and shimmering and stunned, momentum still hurling her forward as her wings locked and engine spun up in a whine of disbelief, and for a moment she could forget about what lay under her while so in awe of what had just happened.

From the very edge of the cliff, the end of the runway, Jazz raised both arms and shouted, "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT!"

But her comm crackled to life, frantic, :: I do not know what to do next! ::

He laughed, delighted, half breathless. "Then feel it! Ride it!"

But she didn't. Not yet.

Her flight veered as wind hit her wrong. She banked too sharply, and other instincts pushed her toward land. Survival screamed louder than confidence.

She clipped a tree with her wing. Hard.

Midair, she tumbled–systems shrieking.

Jazz was already running after her.

He saw the crash in his processors a split second before it happened, before she re-engaged her root form mid-plummet, frame twisting too fast to control, limbs flailing as she smacked branch after branch on her way down–

He launched himself into the fall without hesitation, arms shooting out as he caught her.

Mostly.

They hit the dirt in a tangle, her weight slamming into his chestplate as he twisted to cushion the fall. One of his pedesfolded wrong at the sudden turn to take the weight, but he was too busy skidding to a stop–or rather, his frame slowing down against the Earth.

She groaned above him, dented and disoriented.

He winced but pushed up on one elbow, keeping her half-pinned against him with his other arm. "Frag," he muttered before he caught her optic, causing him to flash a slightly strained grin. "I think I'm makin' a habit outta catchin' you."

"I'll try not to make a habit of falling on you, though."

"Hey, I'm not complainin'."

She chuckled as she quickly got off of him, apologizing and offering her servo to help him up, but suddenly stopped, as if what just happened all came rushing back. "Did I–did I do it?"

He coughed out a vent as she helped him up, flexing his ankle with a wince. "You flew, darlin'. You transformed and it was primus-damned beautiful."

She stared at him, dazed as the shock prevented her from registering the compliment. "I did it."

"You did it," he said again, voice lower this time, laced with utter honesty and pride. "You're a flyer now."

She didn't smile yet.

But her wings twitched."Guess they can't call me a landskimmer anymore, huh?"

"Damn right." He nodded, joking with her as he bled quietly into the dirt, brushing it off like it was nothing. He didn't so much as limp, not wanting to take away a second from this moment.

---

The med-bay lights hummed too brightly for how late it was.

Jazz limped in after Ratchet, who had flicked those lights on anyway, coated in island dust and half-dried energon, the faint scrape of metal on tile betraying just how much weight he was putting on the twisted joint. Ratchet had taken one look at him when he came back through that main tunnel and demanded that he follow him to the med-bay.

Not wanting a wrench to the helm, he did so.

"I swear, if this is another 'scouting run gone long,' I'm rerouting your energon lines to your logic circuits. Maybe then you'll remember what rest is."

Jazz slid onto the med-berth like it was muscle memory, shoulder cocked, visor dimmed just enough to hide the sharp edge of exhaustion behind his smirk. "Wouldn't wanna deprive you of my charming midnight visits."

Ratchet finally turned, a scanner already in his servo, and the second he laid optics on him, his scowl deepened.

"...You're covered in dirt."

Jazz shrugged.

"And is that–" Ratchet leaned in, gaze narrowing, "-red paint?"

"Must've brushed up against a wall." Jazz tilted his helm with a grin that offered no answers.

Ratchet vented so hard it sounded like a steam leak. "You didn't even return yesterday. I don't even need to run a diagnostic to know that your systems are screaming at you for recharge, your hydraulics are out of alignment, and your ankle joint is so bent out of shape. I swear."

He knelt and grabbed Jazz's pede, none too gently. Jazz flinched. Not much, but just enough to confirm what Ratchet already knew.

Ratchet's digits moved deftly, clamping, sealing, straightening. "You keep running like this and you're gonna shred your struts. You need to recharge the moment I clear you, or so help me, I will put you in forced stasis."

Jazz didn't argue. Instead, he just gave a low whistle. "Got it, Doc Bot."

Ratchet rolled his optics so hard it looked like it hurt. "Scrapheap's too kind a place for you."

He waved him off with a servo after he finished patching up his supporting strut and any other injuries in need of patching before, turning back to a tray of half-organized medkits, muttering about stubborn mechs having glitched processors.

Jazz slid off the berth, frame aching beneath the bravado. He moved slowly at first, down the hall, through the quiet base where the lights were dimmed for the night cycle.

The silence felt thick, like something sacred had been tucked inside it, though peaceful.

And despite only just returning, he could only think about her. About the way she'd flown–just once. Just far enough. The transformation had been a triumph! He was proud as could be, but after that?

She hadn't known what came next.

Instinct had carried her through the first threshold, but the air was wide. Lonely. He couldn't be up there with her. Couldn't be wings at her side. Could only run from below and hope she stayed in the sky.

And that wasn't good enough anymore, now that they had reached this goal. He knew they had little time to relish in this success, because this was only the halfway point.

His optics flicked toward the atrium that was still and shadowed.

And Jazz moved silently as always.

He became a ghost in the halls, pedefalls soundless, posture loose, timing practiced he brought out for very few scenarios–missions, pranks, and when he was up to something he shouldn't be.

He slipped through the dark like it was a second skin, and the quiet atrium loomed above him, ceiling high and wide and empty.

He padded toward the central console, posture low, glancing once toward the med-bay where Ratchet was still inside.

Time was short before he returned.

His digits made quick work of pulling up what he needed, putting up security measures, hacking to ensure things remained untrackable, but they hovered like a ghost when it came to completing his dangerous idea, hesitating so openly.

This was a line.

The kind no one would know he crossed until much, much later.

But he knew it was the only way.

For her.

He tapped the keys, and he opened the communications panel.

He didn't trust it... And it was beyond risky going through with this, but he'd have to go out of his comfort zone.

She needed to fly.

This would ensure Rhea's success, and in turn, one step closer to the happiness awaiting her. 

And Jazz was no stranger to risk.

Notes:

Jazz: I wasn't hurt that badly.

Ratchet: All your leaking was internal

Jazz: That's where the energon is supposed to be.

Ratchet: *Hurls wrench*

Chapter 21: Seeking the Light

Summary:

"You were made for this, darlin'. Show him."

It was quiet out here, Replay noticed.

A still kind of silence...The kind that lets thoughts leak in from every corner.

She'd been waiting longer than she thought, and she had gotten far too used to him filling the silence.

Primus, she had gone all these years and managed just fine. She cursed herself for going soft.

Unfortunately for Rhea, she was a soft soul.

Her servos flexed slowly at her sides, grounding herself. A habitual check rolled through her systems, assuring she was ready for today's flight lesson, as disastrous as they might be...

She'd been working hard, though! And it showed, not just in her form, but in how she moved.

With their numerous training drills and manoeuvring routines, she'd gotten pretty decent.

Better than she had any right to be, really. Especially for someone who'd once walked everywhere on two pedes and thought flying was just something birds and actual Seekers did.

Now? Now she could lift herself up into the air! Kinda.

Well, almost. If you didn't include the part where she immediately crashed.

But that was beside the point.

Besides, there weren't many things bothering her these days, so she was remaining positive.

That painful ache that used to pull at her chestplate like a chain had slackened ever so slightly, which was a relief. She wasn't sure if it had dulled, or if she had just learned to fly fast enough to stay ahead of it.

She sat down cross-legged at the edge of the make-shift runway, helm tilted upward toward the sky. The "airstrip" stretched long and empty behind her, and for a moment, it felt like the world had folded down to just this runway, this morning, this moment.

Her voice broke the silence, casual and soft, as if she weren't alone. Which, as often as she felt it until recently, she somehow wasn't. Or maybe she was just crazy.

She sure hoped not.

"I'm getting better, y'know." She blinked slowly, dermas quirking. "I've actually been doing good. I've gotten into the air without eating rock. That's, like, a record."

Then that familiar voice crackled inside her helm, which only seemed to quiet down when Jazz was around for whatever reason.

Maybe she was crazy. Or it was sparing her the embarrassment of talking to herself in front of another.

"Should we start tallying eating trees and dirt?"

She grinned with an optic-roll. "Don't be a bitch."

"I believe the new terminology for you to use is glitch."

"Somehow you're both."

The voice wasn't serious most of the time. It was sardonic, nosy, and just nosy enough. A teasing rasp that flitted through the back of her mind like smoke with opinions.

He—it—wasn't real. Or maybe it was.

She hadn't asked.

"Whatever," she said aloud before it could retaliate, optics still on the sky. "Point is, I've improved. Jazz even said so last time."

"Oh, Jazz said so? Then clearly you've ascended to Prime status."

"You're such an aft." She laughed through her words. It came easier now, that laugh. More honest.

"Now you're getting it." It meant the terminology more than the actual flying bit.

But the grin faded, just a little, as her optics dimmed and her voice went quieter. "I just... still can't figure it out. In the air, yeah, I get it. The speed, the inertia, the physics. I calculate it all. But it's like... I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing wrong to be honest." She picked at a seam along her thigh plating. Her voice dropped lower, less joking. "I'm just a poor excuse for a Seeker, huh?"

There was a pause from the voice. It didn't tease her this time. When it came back, its tone was different. Distant and...wiser, maybe. Or just strange.

"To fly," it said, "you have to know what it is to fall."

Replay stilled.

The wind curled past her, tugging at the tips of her wings like a reminder that sent a shiver rolling down her back strut.

"You, Rhea..." the voice went on, "You know much about that."

She vented, not quite sure why her spark felt tight all of a sudden.

"You were given this chance—to do, to be—and you're halfway there. So don't waste it by only listening to the part of him that makes you feel good."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked softly, barely above a whisper.

"You think Jazz is just teaching you to fly? He's trying to teach you to let go."

She didn't answer because she didn't know how to argue with that.

"And you must, or you'll never find it."

It felt like there was so much more to that.

To fly? To let go? Why was there such urgency in this?

"You must learn to listen."

To what? She wanted to snark back, but decided against it as the wind picked up, tugging again. She shifted her wings with it, feeling the current's edge graze the metal like breath.

"You think he's gonna be late again?" she asked eventually, changing the subject because she needed to.

"Probably."

"I should've brought a cube."

"Stress-refueling solves nothing."

She cracked a small smile again, shoulders relaxing.

Pedesteps, metal on metal, echoed far behind her, as if purposefully making themselves known to her. She could tell because Jazz's steps were silent, and when he didn't want to sneak up on her, he made sure she could hear him. She had memorized the casual, dance-like way he walked. It was so light despite the pressure he used to be known.

Her spark pulsed once, and she stood. "Showtime," Replay muttered, brushing invisible dust from her thigh plating.

"Now that's the spirit."

The voice didn't answer—because the words came not from inside her mind, but just behind her.

She turned to find Jazz walking toward her from the far end of the runway strip, gait easy as ever, one servo in a lazy wave and the other slotted into his hip. He moved like someone who didn't know how to be anything but cool with the low glow of the morning reflecting off his visor, and wearing that familiar grin, brighter than the rising sun behind him.

"Mornin', darlin'."

Her spark thrummed.

She ignored it.

Or rather, ignored the melody of it–whatever subtle song played under his words when he smiled like that. She wasn't listening. Not really. Not when it made things flutter that didn't need to.

Instead, she lifted her chin and firmly set both servos on her hips, leaning into one side. "You're late."

Jazz shrugged like the clouds were to blame. "Had to make a few stops. Get everything nice and ready."

Now she was curious. "Ready for what?"

He stopped beside her and gave a sly sideways glance. "Couple of bots'll be joinin' you today."

Immediately, her optic-ridge pulled in. "Wait, what?"

"I got you a flight instructor."

She stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment as her wings twitched. Then panic edged her words as it settled in. "Jazz, I told you–"

He held up both servos, expression amused but layered with something else. "Not any of the Autobots. Promise. I'm a mech of my word. Though that made this a tad more difficult." He winked. "Don't tell nobody I did this."

That only made her more confused.

"...Then who?"

"You might want to ease up on your control of your field and signature for just a moment." Jazz turned slightly, ignoring the further look of confusion she shot his way before her optics followed his gaze as the treeline as branches parted. And from the dense green foliage, three silhouettes emerged.

They were tall and sleek.

Her systems jolted as her optics flew to a blue mech, broad-shouldered and solid, gait calm and deliberate.

To his left, another mech that was lighter and cockier, black and violet dancing along his plating like mischief incarnate.

And between them, red and silver. Elegant and sharp as always.

Thundercracker, Skywarp, and Starscream walked in sync across the cracked stone, wings glinting in the sun, treading the runway like it was a throne room floor.

Replay's vents stalled for a moment, not used to seeing the mechs as, well, not toys. And slag, were they tall even while she was in this form.

Her smile came before she could stop it, childlike in its awe and excited to see them–but it faltered halfway.

What if they didn't know her?

What if they saw only whoever's frame she was in?

And worst of all, what if Starscream was serious about his revenge for shoving him in the dryer once he realized it was her?

She opened her intake, but nothing came. And she hadn't even realized she had followed Jazz's advice about releasing the firm grip she had on her field and spark signature and letting it roll off of her like light waves.

And the moment they felt it, Skywarp cracked the biggest grin imaginable. "I'll be damned."

Her grin could've rivaled his at that moment.

She almost took a step forward to go greet them before–

"At ease, Autobot," Starscream snarled, a flicker of smugness accompanying it.

It wasn't until then, her optics flickering to Jazz, that she realized the mech had made a point to stand just ahead of her. Lax, as usual, weight shifted slightly to one hip, helm tilted like he was only half-listening. But his knees were bent, coiled like springs, and his fingers gave the tiniest twitch, ready for whatever came next.

Only she really noticed these things. Jazz had a way of keeping his tension tucked beneath the surface, casual as ever. But even the visor couldn't hide the glare he had locked on Starscream—hard, unreadable, and fiercely protective.

Starscream scoffed again, his wings twitching higher as if to bait him. But Jazz just gave a slow, lopsided grin and replied smoothly, voice low and easy. "Ease, huh?" he drawled. "Didn't realize you knew the meanin' of the word, seein' as your entire existence's been one long static fit."

Starscream's optics flared with offense, but he didn't take the bait–not fully. Instead, his gaze slid toward Rhea, sharp and gleaming.

"Well. At least you weren't lying about this." He gestured vaguely toward her frame and whatever other information Jazz might've given, which probably wasn't a lot. "I'll give you that. She's really one of us now. Rare for an Autobot to manage the truth without choking on it."

Jazz just chuckled, soft and casual. "Guess you wouldn't know what honesty looks like unless it kicked you in the wings."

"And I do admire the commitment to the screech, by the way," Jazz added, finally turning his helm just slightly, visor catching the light. "Ain't no one tuned for that banshee pitch, though, mech."

Starscream's vents flared, wings twitching sharply–

"Ladies, ladies," Skywarp cut in with an exaggerated sigh, voice practically dripping with amusement as he blinked into view between them. "Can we maybe reunite with Replay before someone throws a punch and bruises their pride?" He glanced at Rhea and winked. "You'd think they'd both have evolved by now. Alas..." Wait, Replay? What exactly did Jazz tell them?

He warped once more before she could consider it longer, reappearing on the other side of her where Jazz was not with a pop!

He then threw an arm over her, "Y'know, red is not your color."

Replay deadpanned, happy feeling gone as she shoved him off before pointing an accusing digit at him like a scolding mother. "Insult me again, Skywarp." He merely cackled.

Meanwhile, Jazz stood back and let it play out, easing up, but the tension never left as hidden as it might be. He watched Thundercracker step forward and give her a meaningful hug, Starscream's following a little more awkwardly.

To be completely transparent. Jazz was gambling.

Bringing them here–telling them who she was... It hadn't been easy, and it wasn't without risk.

He'd been so, so careful. Careful in the way he handled this one-in-a-million situation.

It was why he only gave them the bare minimum information required to get their help, for them to believe him, though her field and signature were the last they needed in convincing them that this wasn't some kind of trap and that they weren't staring at...

All they needed to know was that Rhea was now in this reality, in this frame, and she needed help.

Jazz knew selective truths were the best way to lie. Lying was his job. He was good at it.

So when they asked how that had happened, it had not been a lie when he said he didn't know.

But he chose not to bring up how she wasn't quite herself. Of how her words sometimes drifted to conversations no one else could hear. The way she talked to herself–not just muttering, but truly conversing. Of how time had reversed, just once, so subtly that the world hadn't noticed, but he had. Jazz stored that information for later, for a different time.

Any more information would have raised questions. Questions he wasn't ready to answer or didn't have the answer to. Questions she wasn't ready to face were alongside that.

He kept those truths tucked away, stored in the quiet corners of his processor for a time when the world was less fragile.

Right now, this second chance was made of threadbare gold and instinct. He hadn't forgotten that feeling of hopelessness when he could do nothing to stop her, when he could do nothing but listen to her die.

Rhea had died.

And Rhea, for a reason he did not know, was here in his universe now. And he was going to do everything in power to keep her alive, to keep her here–with him.

As much as he wanted to just keep her on this island, hide her away so she could just be happy and safe, he knew he couldn't trap her under glass. That wasn't fair.

This gamble was a risk, and risks are all Jazz has ever known.

But he sure as the pit wasn't used to this sinking feeling in his spark.

When he'd hit this wall, this stretch of plateau where she needed more than his words to get her off the ground, he'd decided to match her. To leap, just as he was asking her to.

She had trusted them once before, in a timeline tangled and broken. He'd seen that trust. So now, he would trust too.

But still, even as she laughed with Skywarp and leaned against Starscream's shoulder, Jazz's spark tensed just a little. Because this moment was delicate and he knew that anything could shatter it. Eons of war between them rattled his processors that screamed to get them away.

But if he lost her again—

He wouldn't.

He couldn't.

Not this time.

So he stood a little straighter...and smiled like it was all under control.

---

She stood at the edge of the stone runway, arms crossed lightly over her chest, the wind teasing the edges of her plating as she watched Thundercracker zip past overhead with smooth, elegant control, barely a sound beyond the doppler hum of his engines. Skywarp shot after him seconds later, thrusters flaring erratically, corkscrewing into the open blue with all the grace of a reckless firework.

He was laughing. She could hear it even without comms. He flipped midair and spun backward, the panels on his rear shifting back and forth as if waving at her. She laughed, quiet and breathless.

Jazz stood beside her, arms lazily tucked against his chassis while Starscream stood on her other side, regal and calculating, optics narrowed behind his silver-blue helm as he studied the two Seekers racing above.

"Do not mistake Skywarp's chaos for lack of skill," he said. "He flies like a manic glitchling, but his instincts are sharper than most who graduated Vos's elite."

Rhea tilted her helm toward him slightly. "Vos has an elite?"

Starscream gave a pointed look, as if her question was the problem. "Of course we do."

His arms folded behind his back, elegant posture as ever. "Vosian culture is not simply about altitude and speed—it is legacy. Our wings are extensions of our identity and are a declaration of lineage and pride." He glanced toward her wings as she did so.

She shifted, slightly self-conscious, but thankful for Jazz's smirk. He knew better than to say something, but his expression was somewhat strained as if it killed him not to make a comment on the arrogance when he was a prideful grounder.

"Vosians are talons of the sky, Replay."

"I, uh... I'm not really Vosian."

Jazz glanced over at her as she shrugged, meaning two different things. "I mean, I'm a triple-changer, so technically–"

"Nonsense. Show me your wings."

The order was immediate and sharp, enough so that her optics widened as her wings snapped out like outstretched arms behind her.

"Perfect," he said. Like it was fact before his chin tilted, "How much has your inadequate flight teacher shown you?"

Jazz dermas twitched, finding it fair game now. His intake had opened to snark something back in his usual manner before–

"To his credit," she interrupted, "Jazz is the reason I even got into the air. I couldn't do that alone. Not for decades."

Jazz's optic-ridges raised at her for a moment, surprised at her coming to his defense, but hey, he wasn't about to turn this away.

Instead, he smirked at Starscream, who already knew these facts. Jazz had told him everything before, but he'd wanted to hear it from her. Wanted her to claim it. That and Jazz assumed he wanted to get the dig in, given neither party liked each other and would not be so civil if not for the proxy standing between them. It wasn't petty, it was educational. Obviously.

Skywarp tumbled again overhead, transforming so he was back in his bi-pedal, hovering midair using a strange thruster pattern that wobbled slightly. He beamed, waving down at her goofily.

"Idiot," Starscream muttered under his breath, optics flicking to his brother. "He's chosen an advanced method that is difficult to stabilize and can take vorns to fully master. You'd do better in your alt-mode. It blocks out environmental feedback and helps you learn without distraction."

So that's why she had struggled so much in the beginning.

She had no idea her thrusters were actually harder to use individually and to control, because at the time, simply transforming seemed relatively impossible. But it made sense now that she and Jazz thought about it, but hey, neither knew much about flying anyway.

Nearly forgetting to respond, she quickly nodded. She could do that. At the very least, that part she'd figured out.

Above, Thundercracker whizzed by on a final pass, cutting the air so sharply that the gust shoved Skywarp off balance mid-hover.

Skywarp flailed dramatically, yelling something profane as he tilted sideways and dropped a few feet.

Then, offended, he transformed in a blink and shot after his brother, venting exaggerated outrage all the way.

Starscream merely rolled his optics, then, without fanfare, he stepped forward. "Come. You learn by flying in the air."

He transformed in one fluid motion and launched from the ground with a roar of clean engines, slicing into the sky like he'd never known what it was to fall. Though that was probably not true.

She stood there, watching him ascend. Watching them all ascend.

The sky was wide, and bright, and big in a way she hadn't earned yet.

Replay's vents fluttered as her digits twitched, the quiet returning like static in her processor.

Then Jazz stepped closer to her side, his shoulder grazing her strangely grounding. His voice was soft. "Remember, there's nothin' he can do that you can't."

She looked at him, finding his visor staring back at her, and her reflection with it.

"You sure?"

Jazz tilted his helm, grin soft but real. Then he lifted his digit to his chassis, so close that the slightest movement outward and he would've touched her, only for him to make a cross motion over himself. "Cross my spark."

She smiled.

He reached up and tapped a claw against her chin gently, like flicking off a doubt. "You were made for this, darlin'. Show him."

Her smile stretched. "You're real smug when you're right."

"I know," he agreed far too easily on that fact. "That's why I'm never quiet."

She stepped back, way back, her pedes scuffing against the stone runway until she had the length she needed.

Just like before.

Unlike the Seekers waiting in the sky, Replay needed momentum to get into the air.

She crouched, pushed down into her heels, arms at her sides...and ran.

Ran until her vents roared.

Ran until her wings screamed open.

Ran until she launched.

Her frame twisted and shifted mid-stride, metal folding, parts realigning, and she transformed in one motion, thrusters igniting as she shot off the ground and tore into the sky. The wind smacked Jazz as she soared by, but he didn't falter.

Wind curved around her like a welcome as Jazz watched below with his hands crossed over his chassis, smile remaining...but his spark twitched. Just a little.

He trusted her. He did.

But he didn't trust them.

He was trying. For her. Shoving the instinct down and bottling it in neat, unspoken corners of himself. Because this wasn't just about flying.

The air tore past her wings with a sound like silk ripping. Replay's jetform cut the sky just behind Starscream's glinting red-and-silver frame. He was smooth, polished in motion like he belonged here, because he did. And she–

Well, she was trying.

Her engines whined slightly in her audio sensors as she adjusted her pitch to match him. The ocean shimmered below like a mirror cracked with sunlight, but she made sure to keep her attention locked on Starscream, not daring to look down for more than a second.

:: You see the way I move into that turn? Follow it, now. Roll left with the wind, then bank into it. ::

Replay pulled hard to the left, mimicking the angle of his wings. Her smaller frame responded fast, almost too fast, causing her to wobble, but she corrected herself, steadying her wings again.

:: Good. Your frame is light, even as a triple-changer. Your center of gravity's lower, which makes it easier to shift, to turn, to dive. Use that. Agility is on your side. Don't take it for granted. ::

He slowed slightly so she could glide beside him now, still leading, but just close enough to coach without overpowering.

:: Dive-bombing's risky, even for us. But if you master it... It becomes a weapon. One that doesn't miss. With your frame type, it can be quite deadly for your enemy. ::

She vented softly, trying not to show it.

:: Copy that. :: Her voice didn't carry the anxiety, but she felt it. Especially with that much open water under her.

Still, she moved with him, gliding wide around a towering cliff's edge, sensors picking up the subtle change in altitude and wind speed. She tilted with it, curious, cautious. Focused.

And she didn't even notice the two other jets trailing them a few yards out until a voice chirped through the comms:

:: We still pretending we aren't here, Commander? She's doin' alright! ::

Thundercracker's calm voice followed behind Skywarp's teasing. :: He told us to give her space. Don't distract her. ::

:: Pshh, I'm helping. I'm emotional support. ::

:: Your support is classified more as a weight on one's ankle. ::

Replay smiled in spite of herself, feeling every shift of her wings felt a little more natural.

Flight had a way of easing one's tensions for a Seeker, and it rolled off of you as much as it eased anything residing in your frame that made you feel tight. It was utterly natural, as was the way her spark like static in her chassis.

Once she had a taste of flight, she realized far too quickly that hiding out underground was a bit torturous.

Excitement and nerves all blended into one blur as Starscream led her into a tighter turn that swept them under a narrow arch of jagged cliff.

:: Drop altitude. Just enough to pass under the ridge. Stay close to me and keep your trajectory. ::

Her thrusters powered back gently, and she lowered, belly nearly grazing the water now. Her vents stalled as the ocean felt too close, like it was breathing up at her. Watching and waiting.

Then–

A column of rock loomed out of nowhere, one of many jagged ridges rising from the sea like broken teeth. She yelped and jerked right, just missing it.

:: WHOA– :: she gasped through comms.

:: Focus! :: Starscream snapped, cutting sharply around another ridge.

Skywarp's voice cut in, playful and bright. :: Not a real Seeker till you smack a cliff face! Don't worry, it builds character. ::

:: You would know. :: Thundercracker chimed in.

:: RUDE. ::

Rhea found herself chuckling, anxious and breathless as she gathered herself once more. :: I recall you warping into several walls. ::

:: That was–Hey! That was experimentation! ::

:: Enough! :: Starscream barked aloud over the comm. :: Silence! I'm teaching. ::

:: Yeah, yeah. ::

Quiet fell again, except for the sound of their jets and the rush of wind.

Starscream angled upward now, toward a rising bank of clouds, and she followed.

It felt... freeing. Like soaring through a song she didn't know the words to, but somehow remembered anyway.

They pierced the clouds together, and she felt the condensation brushing her wings, the light dimming for just a breath. Then they burst through the top of the cloud bank–and Starscream flipped.

He twisted backward in a graceful loop and began his descent. Replay blinked, then committed, diving after him before she could second-guess herself.

Wind howled against her, a deathly wobble taking over at the wrong angle she flipped with. A violent crosscurrent caught her wings and spun her.

:: nononono– ::

Her wings twisted, folding out of alignment as her control scrambled.

She transformed midair as the fear clenched around her spark once more, no longer feeling the thrill or whatever Cybertornians had for adrenaline in the way she wanted as her bipedal began tumbling out of place, spinning and spiraling.

Transforming had been a defense mechanism the moment she lost control, leaving her in a free fall.

:: Rhea! :: Jazz's voice buzzed through a private comm, using her real name, instantly alert at what he could see from a distance.

But Starscream was already diving with her.

:: Look at me! :: his voice cut through her comm, diving beside her falling frame. :: Listen! ::

She was panicking the farther she fell, the wind screaming in her audials.

:: Transform back! ::

:: I-I can't, I need a runwa– ::

:: No, you don't! That's in your helm. Your frame knows how to do it, it's in your coding, regardless of how you came to be. Trust it! ::

The cliffside jutted out ahead, trees and rock and stone towers.

Her optics widened, unable to stop it.

:: Stop thinking. Start flying! ::

Her spark pulsed like a drum.

She gritted her denta, forced her arms to fold back, twisted mid-fall, only for her panels to scream open as her wings snapped back open in flight position, the same time her thrusters ignited. Her frame just barely missed the treeline of the edge of the cliffside as she soared above it, angled just right that she went down with the hill's downward slope, pedes scraping the tops of the trees.

Wind whistled by her audials, slamming against her frame with mighty force, but with her wings in proper position and with the help of her thrusters, her wild and fast descent turned more controlled.

Her spark raced in her chassis faster as she took a few quick vents, optics wild as the blurred scenery around her.

The words came back. Trust your instincts.

Heat exploded within her spark, and she felt herself shift the moment she let that fear go, and her alt-form roared back to life right as the cliffside fell off into the sea.

Her jet-form shot forward, slicing between two columns of rock, like the many that surrounded the coastal edges, twisting sideways to avoid a third.

The ocean was a blur below her now, but she was able to ignore it in favor of the way she soared, so loud it left a high-pitched whistle in her wake.

Ridge after ridge blurred past, and she zig-zagged between them like she was born in the wind, every motion guided by instinct and raw thrill. Her laughter broke through her vents in a giddy, breathless, but alive manner, though it was silenced by the roaring wind curled around her.

:: She's fine! :: Skywarp shouted in the comms, reminding her she had an audience. :: SHE LIVES!! ::

:: Holy scrap, that was– ::

She shot toward the cliffs, engine roaring, back toward the edge of the runway where Jazz stood, optics wide as he stepped hastily aside.

She transformed midair, hit the ground on both pedes, skidding across the stone with a screech and sparks where her metal met the runway.

Jazz rushed forward instantly, before she had even stopped, nothing short of worry rolling off of him as the three Seekers landed, but she was already turning to face them, helm thrown back, wings outstretched.

Color them surprised to see her beaming. "DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

"We did." Jazz released the air from his shuttered-closed vents. Finally. His voice was somewhere between panic and pride.. "Primus..."

Skywarp warped over only to bump her shoulder. "You almost died! That was fragging awesome!"

"Don't encourage her," Thundercracker grumbled, smacking his brother upside the helm.

"Ow!"

"You did well," Thundercracker told her in favor of ignoring his brother's offense.

Starscream flicked a servo toward the sky. "Try not to attempt that again." Then there was a beat. "But... well done. If you are ready, let's go again."

Replay turned to Jazz, her optics still alight, her grin unwavering. "Sorry about the runway," she said, half-joking, voice softening because he had built it for her. "Looks like I no longer need momentum, huh?"

Jazz looked at her, visor unreadable, but his intake quirked into that familiar, slow grin. The kind that always spelled trouble.

"Ain't worried 'bout the runway, darlin'," he told her, voice low and easy as he stepped in just a little closer. "I'd scrap it in a klik if it means watchin' you soar like that again."

Her smile pulled wider, stepping back with a playful tilt to her helm. "You sure?"

Jazz's grin sharpened just a bit, his visor dipping. "Could do without the near-death acrobatics, though. Just sayin'." He brought a servo to his spark, as if it had pained him.

"Worried about me?" she teased, already turning away.

He clicked his denta once, almost like a scoff. "Nah," he said smoothly, watching her with that quiet focus of his. "Just don't like surprises I ain't the one causin'."

She laughed, then took off within her first few steps, transforming mid-stride in a blur of motion and confidence.

This time, Jazz didn't worry. He just watched her rise, pride tugging at the corners of his smile like gravity had finally let go.

---

She'd gotten fast. Faster than she'd ever expected.

The targets Jazz and the Seekers had set up along the far cliffside and along the runway were nothing but blurs now as she shot through them in quick succession, dipping low, looping high, weaving with tight, trained finesse.

Sometimes Skywarp ran her drills, egging her on with jokes and overdramatic praise every time she clipped a target.

Thundercracker was stricter. He was a mech of few words, but he was sharper with the critiques he did give. Every word he did give was meaningful and intentional.

They rotated as instructors while Starscream oversaw from a distance, offering rare but pointed advice when needed.

When she started flying through them effortlessly, they changed the course and made it harder.

The targets were moved into the trees–low-hanging branches, tight gaps between trunks, natural roots used like gates. It forced her to maneuver in tighter spaces, react faster, and lean into her instincts. Her wings got scratched more often than not. Her pride, sometimes too.

But she never stopped, which she could say was a fairly new thing.

---

Days had turned into weeks of this, and it was yet another time the sun set on the horizon, not that Replay could see it from where she sat cross-legged on the cave floor in front of a scattered mess of smoke bombs and modified gadgets splayed out between her and Jazz.

He lounged, propped back on one elbow with his visor catching the hue of the blue crystals lighting up the room all over the walls. They'd been working on her EM field earlier, fine-tuning how her emotional output manipulated it, how to control the intensity and direction.

Now? Gadget show-and-tell. 

I don't want you to leave yet.

I don't want to leave yet.

She explained them piece by piece with that casual confidence she'd grown into, coming out of her isolated shell that had come with the years of occupying her own company. Don't get her wrong, she still had her frequent moments of curling in on herself, retreating back into a shy bubble.

So Jazz loved to watch her talk.

Conversations with Rhea in the other reality were always a highlight for him, quite literally, as she always made sure to be the one to light up any gloomy room, especially for the kids. It was one of the only things he really enjoyed while feeling utterly useless.

A part of him ached when he got here, and she didn't act like before, and her light had dimmed. She was quieter, unsure of herself, and closed off just when he had broken past some of her walls. He was quite skilled and doing so, but he found a different kind of patience in getting to know her.

At some point it became not something he did because it was his job to do so.

Then she just...died. And some of the light went with her. With him. He didn't realize how much he loved that warmth until it was gone.

Then there she was, right there. Not even a day, mere hours, and she was back, but without that same light.

And he was determined to get it back, not to feel the warmth just for himself, as much as he missed it, but so she could burn bright enough to not just light up the room for others but to see her the way he did.

So far, it was a steady path upward with little hiccups here and there. And don't get him wrong, she still was finding her way back to bringing light in every room, but this was what he enjoyed seeing the most the moment he got back.

The moment when the Rhea he knew shone through the dark.

He watched her ramble, gesturing with small, deft motions as she lined up her collection: pulse disruptors, flash capsules, signal jammers. Smart stuff. Subtle stuff. Things meant to disable, disorient, and escape.

He noted that nothing here was made with the intent to kill, but it could have that effect if used alternatively.

It was inherently lethal, but she had no intent to use it in the way–unless she had to. It was why he noticed that she didn't even bother showing off the two little pistols of hers.

Jazz noticed it, even if she didn't. Her instincts always leaned toward protection over damage. She didn't want to hurt. Not unless someone got hurt first. It was who she was.

It made sense, he guessed. That she fought like someone who still hoped the other side would back down first.

He liked that about her.

Still, she needed more.

Jazz shifted, tapping a panel along his hip. With a quiet click, a knife slid from his thigh plating and another from his wrist.

"Okay, that's cheating."

"Efficient." He grinned at the way she was awed by his hidden compartments.

Each knife he showed her was uniquely shaped, etched with a faint glowing script that shimmered when tilted in the light. "They're laced," he told her casually, "with a few things that aren't... technically cleared for field use, so I trust you won't mention these to anybody." It was an exchange in their little "show-and-tell."

Replay's optic-ridges lifted. "Jazz."

"What?" He held up a servo as if to show her he was fine. "Micro dosages. Coded to my spark sequencing. Totally harmless... unless you're not me."

From beneath his visor, his optic subtly looked up, watching her as she watched the knife he twiddled between his digits.

The metal was curved, sleek and elegant, clearly custom-forged, and shimmered with a gradient of color that shifted as it moved: deep rose at the hilt, bleeding into rich violet, then a sharp pink edge that caught the light like a razor-kiss. The faint glowing script glimmered, deadly.

Etched along the spine was a delicate, almost musical pattern–like soundwaves frozen in metal. It was beautiful, in the way dangerous things often were. The handle was wrapped in black, but laced through with fine crimson thread, giving it a pulse-like vibrancy.

"It's beautiful," Replay awed, staring at it further.

Jazz grinned as he gave it one last spin, then caught it effortlessly in his palm, the blade resting flat across his servos. He then turned it toward her. "I tuned this one to your spark signature."

She blinked as he offered it hilt-first. "For when I'm not around."

She hesitated, not taking it. Her helm shook. "You can't just give me a knife that could kill someone and expect me to say thanks."

"It's a knife you can use in any way you see fit," he replied easily, grin stretching once more. "It's a safety knife. No one said you had to kill anyone with this."

She gave him a flat look. "But it could."

"It could," he nodded. "But only if you choose to do so."

She was no fool. The way he worded this was intentional.

Choose.

He always gave her room to choose.

He leaned closer, bringing back that teasing when she got lost in her thoughts. "Rhea," he only used her name in private, just for them. "For you."

Her digits hovered over it, recognizing for a brief moment the trust he was having in giving her this. Jazz was very closed off; she knew that. As she also knew that there probably wasn't anybody who knew about how dangerous his daggers truly were.

Jazz had a problem with letting anyone in while hiding in a joyful persona that made you think you were.

Yet here they were.

Here he was... And here she was.

And he trusted her with this, which mattered very much to her.

She took it gently and slipped into her subspace. She'd have to make something to hold it on herself later.

Jazz vented softly, so soft she almost hadn't caught it, almost like a thank-you.

Rhea rolled her optics. "You know this means I owe you."

He gave her a look. "You don't owe me a thing."

"Nope." She leaned back. "That's not how this works. Equal exchange. Want something from my collection?" Her optic-ridges wiggled as she pointed to the array of things she had been showing him.

Jazz tilted his helm, considering, before telling her, "I've already got what I want."

That made her pause. "...What?"

He smirked. "What."

"No no no, what did you take?"

"I'm offended by these accusations." His grin turned feline as he placed a servo to his chassis. "I am but an innocent bystander."

She eyed her smoke bombs, patted her thigh storage. "Jazz."

He winked. "Maybe I just value things differently."

What he didn't say—what she didn't know—was this:

Hidden in the folds of his subspace, tucked so carefully between other trinkets he never let anyone see, sat a small, weathered object.

A music box.

Her music box.

The one he had found, kept, and waited with.

Because she wasn't ready then.

But maybe, one day, she would be.

For now, he took great amusement in the way she rolled her optics. "You're impossible."

Jazz's grin deepened. "Mm, and you're downright lethal with that smile, got half a processor to call it a weapon. And we were worried about lil' ol' knives."

She froze just long enough for him to catch it, optics narrowing at him.

"Don't look at me like that," he leaned forward, enjoying this far too much. "unless you're tryin' to start somethin'."

"Oh, please." Replay reached over and shoved him.

---

Rhea stood at the edge of the stone runway again, this routine becoming a habit whenever the Seekers were available to come, which varied from day to day, as this was one big secret.

The Seekers flanked her in a loose triangle today, Starscream out front with arms crossed, Skywarp lazily hovering midair, and Thundercracker standing off to the side, watching quietly.

Today's lesson was her thrusters. They had already gone through the motions, but now came the time for a controlled test flight. Controlled being the keyword here.

"Activate the thrusters in your pedes," Starscream instructed sharply. "Not too roughly, just ease into it so you don't flail again."

"I'm not flailing," she muttered.

"You were flailing," Skywarp chimed in. "There was definitely flail."

"Quiet," Starscream snapped at him. "Replay, again. Wiggle the left. Then the right. Then both."

She vented and focused.

The right one buzzed, flickering with a weak pulse of light. The left sparked to life a second too late. She shifted her weight, trying to hold steady, but her balance wobbled.

"You're anticipating failure," The commander of their trine said, tone clipped but not cruel. "Stop doing that. Gentle takeoff requires you to feel your weight shift through your frame. It is not a rocket launch."

She gritted her denta. "It feels like a rocket launch."

Starscream rolled his optics. "Again."

The thrusters hummed, but unevenly.

Then, suddenly–BOOM!

Her left thruster kicked on full force without the right, launching her off the ground sideways like a lopsided firecracker. "SCRAP!"

She pinwheeled through the air...

... Right into an already cackling Skywarp.

His laughter caught off with a loud, "ACK–"

The two tumbled off the side of the runway in a messy tangle of wings, arms, limbs, and cackling, crashing down into a soft patch of dirt and brush below.

Thundercracker actually chuckled. "Graceful."

Jazz, standing nearby, barked out a full laugh, doubled over, wheezing. "That was the most fraggin' elegant launch I've ever seen."

Even Starscream, arms still folded stoically, smirked.

Dust swirled around them, and as it settled, she realized she was sprawled across Skywarp, their frames hopelessly entwined, her knee near his hip, his arm looped awkwardly behind her back.

"Well," Skywarp grinned up at her, optics gleaming, voice low and smug, "if you wanted me underneath you, sweetspark, you could've just said so."

She smacked him across the helm with a sharp clang.

"Ow!" he winced, laughing anyway.

Then, as she started to push off him, he craned his neck just enough to call out, tone loud and far too innocent, "Hey Jazz, you okay with sharin'?"

Somewhere off to the side, Jazz muttered low enough for no one but him to catch, maybe his brothers, "Keep talkin', Warp. See what happens."

---

Yet another night of the two seated side by side on the floor in a loose sprawl of datapads, wires, and humming diagnostics had come. Most nights looked like this if Jazz wasn't called back to base with responsibilities.

He couldn't have come if he wanted because he was currently wrist-deep in the groundbridge controls again, tweaking the relay systems to compensate for the Seekers' huge distance whenever they bridged them here. Every so often, the system would hiss or blink red in protest, and he'd curse under his breath and keep typing.

Rhea watched him from the corner of her optic, before returning to where she worked right next to him.

"This is the most ridiculous bug I've ever seen," she muttered, frustrated as she too dug into the wires before plugging something else into the monitor.

"You ever try coding around Skywarp's jump signature?" Jazz replied without looking up. "It's like patching a hole in the fabric of reality with duct tape."

"Fancy duct tape."

He snickered. "Cybertron's finest."

The silence between them was easy and familiar at this point.

Then Jazz shifted, visor glinting. "Wanna play somethin'?"

She looked over briefly from where she worked. "Play what?"

"Twenty Questions, or so I've heard from Jack and Miko."

Rhea raised an optic ridge. "That's a game you play when you don't have someone's file."

"What can I say? I like the slow approach."

She smirked, but nodded.

"Ladies first."

There was a beat of silence as she considered what to ask, and what might be a good ask. While this might be a chance for him to ask something she might not want to say, she also saw her chance to learn more about him.

"I know you love music, but it was once mentioned that you're quite the dancer," she said, tapping away at the monitor to fix some of the code. "Where did you learn to dance?" Asking the loaded questions of whether he danced before the war, whether he still dances, and so many other related questions. But this was a good place to start.

It took him a moment to reply, leaving nothing but the sound of them working.

Until–

"Nah," he said, finally glancing over. "My carrier was deep into music...beats, rhythm lines, lightpulse concerts. It was in my code the moment I was sparked, I assume. I get the glide from her."

She smiled, but it faded a little into something sympathetic. Guilt clenched at her heart, and she instantly felt bad for bringing it up. "Sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"Don't worry about it," he dismissed. "I wouldn't tell you if I didn't want you to know."

He shifted back to the console when she didn't immediately say anything, still feeling a bit guilty for bringing up something sensitive by accident. He gave her his full attention when he said, "My turn."

There was a beat.

"Why the socks?"

Rhea blinked, confused. "What?"

"You always wore themed socks. You had, like, a new pair every day. Dinosaurs. Avocados. Star Wars? I think that was the movie series you mentioned." He chuckled, her own mixing with his.

The answer came easy. "I wore them because I liked waking up and deciding what kind of day it was gonna be based on my feet. It made people smile, and it was hard to take life too seriously when you had fun socks on."

There it was again. That light.

He never wanted it to go away.

She tilted her helm toward him with a faint grin. "I kinda miss them." He noted the way she looked down at her metal pedes before looking up and trying to lighten the suddenly more solemn air, "Too bad I got big metal feet now, huh?" He made sure to laugh with her to ease the anxious waves rolling from her.

"My turn again," she recovered. "Tell me about Cybertron. What was your favorite city?"

He gave her a sly look, arching an optic-ridge. "That's two questions."

"Oh come on, those go hand in hand!"

He let the pause stretch long enough to make her squirm, then relented. "Alright, fine."

Jazz leaned back on one servo, thoughtful as he considered his answer. "Cybertron was... beautiful. In that way cities are when you know them. It wasn't perfect, it was a lot like Earth in having some ups and downs, but honestly my favorite spot was Crystal City."

She sat up straighter. "Wait, Crystal City? Cyberton has cities?"

"Ah-ah," he grinned, holding up a servo to cut her off. "My turn."

She groaned, flopping back against the nearest metal support.

The game carried on for a while–far past twenty questions.

Jazz asked about her favorite childhood hiding spot. She asked what his favorite Cybertronian drink was. He asked what her favorite book was. Each answer opened a window, small but no detail less important than the next.

But eventually, Jazz went quiet for a beat, digits stilling over the keys of the code he was helping her with, as she was too distracted by the game to really focus on the intricacies of fixing it.

"Who were you talkin' to the other night?" he asked, like it wasn't loaded. It had been quite a few nights, but he didn't want to scare her off with this question.

Rhea hesitated, not quite looking at him as she admitted, "There's a... voice... In my helm. It's been there since I woke up in this frame."

"It's not... me. I don't think."

She fiddled with the tool again, what she had been using it for long forgotten. "It's always there. Sometimes helpful, but sometimes just loud. So I named him Vox. Made it easier to talk to."

Jazz didn't react with concern or surprise. He just listened.

"You think I'm losing it?" Replay looked up with a cautious expression, grimacing.

He snorted, easing her worries. "Rhea," She noted the use of her name, "I've been hanging around Decepticons as of late. You're not losing it."

She huffed out a laugh. "It's pretty weird, though. How many people say they have voices in their helms?"

"I can't recall any, unfortunately." He shrugged. "But that doesn't make you crazy or weird. Just means you're dealin' with somethin' most folks wouldn't know what to do with."

He paused, then added with a half-smirk, "And for the record? You're handling it a lot better than half the mechs I know who don't hear voices."

She laughed at that before quickly changing the subject by saying, "Okay. My turn again."

He nodded.

"When you said I had the chops to be a saboteur... did you mean it?"

Jazz turned to her, resting both elbows on his knees. "I meant it."

She narrowed her optics. "Because I've been thinking, with us basically finishing up our usual training... I've been thinking that if... well, if I have to protect someone... I want to be good at it. I want to be smart about it. So I'm asking." She wasn't the type to want to fight or get thrown in the mission, but Rhea was the type to want to help and have the tools to do so. She didn't care for fighting, but that wasn't what she was asking. Not really.

He leaned back slightly, visor angled toward her like a smirk without the grin. "You want me to train you?"

"I want to see if you were right." Then she smiled at him, "You're the one who told me you always were."

Jazz couldn't help but smirk. "I did say that, didn't I?"

She rolled her optics with a chuckle, but when he didn't say anything else, she added, "I'm serious."

"So am I."

The console beeped behind them as the last of the groundbridge updates finished running. The screen flashed green.

But neither of them moved.

They just sat in the quiet hum of the hangar, questions half-spoken still lingering in the air, and more waiting just beneath the surface.

"Alright," he agreed, shaking his helm at the way she immediately lit up.

---

It was another clear day over the island with blue skies, smooth currents, and for once, no turbulence.

Rhea hovered midair, flanked on either side by Thundercracker and Skywarp, with Starscream in the lead just a few clicks ahead. The sun caught their wings as they shifted into position, forming a tight diamond in the sky.

Today's lesson was learning to fly with others.

Rhea didn't like it much, but that would be the nerves.

Not because she didn't trust them, but because flying together meant matching pace, matching rhythm. It meant not messing up. It meant letting her movements be seen, judged, and counted on. Her wings twitched, nerves crawling up her backstrut.

:: Stay close, but fluid. :: Starscream called through comms.

They banked left together, and Replay followed.

They did a tight turn, and her thrusters pulsed in perfect sync with theirs.

And something clicked.

The wind curved beneath her wings like muscle memory, or er–coding... memory? Her frame responded before her thoughts did.

For a second, it felt like music, like flying wasn't something she had to think about anymore. It just was.

Her EM field rippled outward, bright with excitement. She didn't even realize she'd broadcasted it.

Starscream looked over at her mid-flight, and the three Seekers around her understood.

:: Exactly. Again. ::

They looped upward, rolled over, and turned as one. This time, they headed straight toward the runway where Jazz stood watching their approach.

As they swooped past him, tight and low, her EM field flared again, closer now to him. He felt it hit him in a wave, and could feel her excitement.

He grinned, visor gleaming.

"Yeah," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "You're gettin' it."

---

The forest whispered around them, the sound of nature turning to white noise as Replay stood across from Jazz, one pede forward, one servo curled around the hilt of a small blade–the one he'd given her. Its laced qualities would have no effect on them, so it was practically just a normal dagger she held when facing him.

He stood relaxed, arms at his sides, no weapons in sight.

"I thought I was learning spy stuff," she inquired, optic-ridge raised.

"You are," he replied easily, posture far too casual for someone who was supposed to be taking her on as she wielded a blade. "But a good saboteur knows how to defend herself before she sneaks into trouble."

She eyed the blade as it glinted in the patch of sun that peeked through the treetops. "This doesn't feel fair. I've got a blade. You've got...what, jazz hands?"

He smirked. "Trust me, darlin'. You won't be able to hit me. Just come at me."

That definitely sounded arrogant.

And it made her decide quite promptly to lunge forward, fully prepared to stop her servo holding the blade before it touched him.

And in the span of four seconds, she was on the ground, flat on her back, optics wide, blade skidding across the forest floor. She blinked up at him and the sunlight-littered leaves above her, stunned.

Jazz stood above her, servos on his hips, intake curved in a wicked grin.

"See? Told ya." He cocked his helm as if trying to look at her from the right angle from where she lay. "Cute pedework, though. Real graceful fall."

She groaned.

He offered a servo, and when she took it, he tugged her up with ease.

"Again?" he asked, still smug as ever.

"Absolutely," she muttered, grabbing the blade from the ground.

"That's what I like to hear."

And just like that, they reset.

---

Replay jolted, instinctively yanking her servo over the workbench in front of her as a voice purred behind her.

"Whatcha workin' on?"

She turned, optics wide—caught.

She swooped the project under some things before spinning around toward the voice.

Jazz stood casually near her usual workspace, leaning a little too comfortably against the frame of one of her bigger projects, arms crossed like he hadn't just startled her half out of her spark.

She narrowed her optics. "Sneaking up on people while they're doing sensitive work? Not a good habit."

He tilted his helm innocently. "Only a problem when they hide said work the klik you walk in."

She didn't answer, merely tapping a digit against the desk once before letting it drop. "You scared me."

"Sorry, darlin'."

He stepped further into the space, his gaze flicking briefly to the crystals glowing faintly along the walls, something he always eyed–raw energon, half-refined and still pulsing. "Seekers already bounce out?" It was an absent-minded question amidst his observations.

Replay nodded. "Few hours ago. They're careful not to make a pattern of it. Too many questions from the Nemesis, or so Thundercracker tells me."

The part of Jazz that was the third in command of the Autobots and head of Spec Ops itched at the idea of following them, infiltrating, taking them down from the inside out, but the part that had called them here in the first place retrained what might as well have been instinct.

Besides, they bridged from a location away from the Nemesis to avoid both the questions from their superiors on their activities and from the Autobots finding their location.

He hummed, stepping closer, the tone in his voice changing slightly. "Well, I should probably head back soon. I'm overdue for a refuel anyway."

Something in her dropped. A beat she didn't want to name.

I should probably head back soon. And each time he announced something along those lines, something quieter started tugging at her spark. She was starting to notice it more and more.

"You could... stay a little longer," she offered, casual in a way that she had begun to pick up from him.. "I've got some energon to spare, if that's what you're after."

Jazz glanced back at the glowing walls. "You've been using these?"

"Sort of."

"These crystals aren't easy to convert." He stepped toward one of the walls that had been dug into, obviously by her, but there was plenty of raw energon to go around. "You got refinery tech hidden somewhere I don't know about?" He'd be lying if he said he had never been curious about this. But she never showed signs of energon deficiency, so he never asked.

"Nope." She moved toward the opposite corner of the room, rummaging through a storage crate. "Figured it out a while ago. Put a rush on it once I realized biting into a raw crystal wasn't exactly great for my intake."

He gave a half-laugh, half-groan. "You bit it?"

In it were cubes, the energon inside pulsing a soft, luminous blue, like any standard batch.

But then, as she reached in and the color shifted, the same way it did whenever she got close to the walls of crystals.

Jazz's optics narrowed as the soft blue bled from her palm and up into a shimmering iridescent. A white-rainbow sheen bled through it like liquid starlight, shining faintly only when her servos were on it.

She extended the cube to him as she walked over.

He took it, and they watched as the color instantly dimmed back to ordinary blue.

"Mind if I ask why energon seems to act so strangely around you?" He popped the lid off his cube before tilting it back to sip at it.

She shrugged, sitting beside him with her own matching cube, still softly glowing in that strange, spectral way in her grip. "It's always done that."

He's lost, but found it would be unproductive to pry. It was a strange phenomenon that he probably needed to bring up with Ratchet somehow, without giving her away.

Which reminded him of that lingering thought that knew Ratchet was going to be pissed when he found out about him keeping her a secret. He grimaced just thinking about it.

Ratchet was going to kill him.

But he kept that to himself as they eased into conversation as they both drank. Her energon shimmered in its strange color between sips while his stayed that boring blue. But the moment felt easy and comfortable as always.

The silence stretched until Replay gave him a small side glance. "Does that energon question count as your turn?"

He chuckled at that. "If you insist."

They laughed.

They eased into conversation as they both drank, slowly as if to make the moment last longer. The game of back-and-forth questions went on, letting their refueling last even longer.

Replay glanced over at him, resting her almost-finished cube on her knee. "Do you ever miss it?"

Jazz tilted his helm. "Miss what?"

She shrugged, staring ahead at the pulsing blue glow on the walls. That hadn't been close enough to change colors. "Just... being home. But I guess it wasn't really your home, but–"

He cut her off before she could make herself sad, "Yeah," he told her with utter certainty. "I do."

He didn't miss the home per se, but he missed a lot of things about it.

She nodded a little, but her voice was quiet when she replied. And he knew the game had faded away at this point.

"I remember getting home that day." He knew she was talking about Rowan without having to say so. "I remember everything just felt... loud. And then..."

She trailed off, optic-ridges furrowing faintly.

And he listened.

Jazz was good at listening to her.

"I don't know what happened after that. I think I went to my room. I think I sat down. And then... it's just gone. Like I blinked and woke up here."

She said it so casually, almost distracted, like she didn't fully realize the weight of what she'd admitted.

Jazz's grip on his cube tightened slightly, trying to gather more without twisting an embedded knife deeper.

"And Nellie?"

She looked over, and Jazz was lost at the look of confusion in her optics, the feeling only deepening when she asked. "Who?"

His spark dropped.

She really didn't know.

He masked it with a half-shrug, keeping his voice smooth as he lied through his denta. "Just a name I thought you might've remembered. There was... an incident. After everything. War got too close and..."

Rhea nodded as if understanding the rest, but slowly, indicating that she wasn't fully convinced, but she didn't press, and Jazz didn't elaborate.

He couldn't. Not now.

Inside, his processor spun.

She didn't remember dying.

She didn't remember Nellie.

Why?

Why those things?

Why only those things?

But he didn't want to distress her more, who knows if he'd lose her again?

But he wanted to ask more. Needed to.

Did she remember why Rowan was there if she didn't seem to remember Nellie, who was the reason he was there at all?

He started, "Do you maybe remember what happened to Row—"

But she cut him off fast. "How are the kids?"

That answered that.

She didn't want to talk about it and didn't want to hear it.

He nodded slowly, playing along for her sake of needed air, realizing the line had been met for the night on questions regarding her world before. "They're good. June Darby's helping get them settled. Fowler has worked to get 'em under the radar with human government’s help. Madoc and Astryd are their current caretakers in a place Fowler set up for hem. They started their first day of school last week."

Her whole expression lifted as she beamed.

"I'll have to thank June Darby and Fowler someday."

"You'll like her," Jazz confirmed. "June's got your type of grit."

The conversation drifted, eventually curling into easy silence again.

He felt the moment shifting.

It was time to go.

He glanced toward the groundbridge in the corner of the room. "I should probably go." There it was again.

But when she noted him hesitating, intake opening, she knew what he was going to say.

But before he could even ask her to come with him, she was already standing, cube in servo. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Jazz paused.

There was something in the way she said it. Like it was already decided. Like she wanted to keep him close, but wasn't ready to leave with him either.

"I should probably get some, uh... recharge." Neither of them was convinced by that lame excuse, but he wasn't going to call her on it.

Instead, he nodded. "Tomorrow, then."

Notes:

Replay: You brought them here, for me? You put your war aside for me?

Jazz: I'd do anything for you

Replay: Why?

Jazz: I love you

Replay: what?

Jazz: What.

 

Guys I got this out literally at 11:30 so it's still sunday. sorry it's soooo late but man editing this was a bitch, and it's not even fully edited so apologies for the errors that might be littered through out.
We're setting the air for some things... soak in the fluff. LMAO

Chapter 22: Stickers

Summary:

"The music notes were my addition, Stickers."

Notes:

get ready for the top gun maverick references causeee I love that movie

The wind howled thinner up here. The air didn't cradle you so much as cut through, thin and cold and fast. The altitude made every movement sharper, sleek bodylines slicing clouds like blades through silk, where sound dissolved into static and pressure.

It was nothing like gliding. Nothing like her first lesson.

This was a battlefield wrapped in blue.

Replay flew tight on Skywarp's six, the lilac streak of his afterburner pulsing like a beacon against the pale sky.

He flew like a show-off even when it wasn't about him.

Her wings jittered slightly in the current, overcorrecting, nervous. But that was because they were preparing her today for the fact that they were still in a war, and it wouldn't always be her in the sky.

::Welcome to Basic Fighter Maneuvers,:: Starscream's voice crackled through the comms, dry as ever. ::Today's exercise is air combat. No missiles. No abilities.::

Skywarp groaned so loud it nearly came through physically.

::Aw, come on, no teleporting? You're cutting my wings off, here.::

Thundercracker's reply was a calm breeze beside Skywarp's turbulence. ::You'll live.::

Starscream didn't pause for either of them.

::The hard deck is 5000 feet. Do not drop below it. Break it and you're out. Your job is to work together to take either me or TC out as we play the role of bandit. You get a lock, we count it. Vice versa, same rules. If either of you gets tagged, you both lose.::

Replay adjusted her flaps, a nervous tic. Skywarp banked lazily to the right, keeping their formation tight while her processor spun with the logistics

::Or else what?:: she asked, light but curious.

::Or else we shoot back,:: Starscream replied flatly.

Skywarp chuckled. ::What's in it for the winner?::

::Staying alive,:: Thundercracker said pointedly, as if it were obvious.

But Skywarp, ever allergic to quiet or serious nudges at reality, broke it with a scoff. ::Nah, we need stakes. Losers owe the winners... one hundred transform drills.::

::That's a lot of drills,:: she muttered.

::They don't call it an exercise for nothing,:: Starscream said with an audible smirk.

There was no going back.

::Got yourself a deal,:: she said. ::Fight's on. Let's turn and burn.::

The sky twisted, and the game began.

Skywarp dove first as the flight leader, giving her a chance to ease into it by not leading, but he was reckless and gleeful as ever, dragging Replay behind like a comet tail. She tucked into formation behind him, nose tilted just right to catch his slipstream and follow his lead. From above, the horizon rolled like a marble—ocean, sky, mountain, sky.

::I'm lead, you're wing,:: he told her. ::Stick tight and call out movement. You see one of 'em? You sing it.::

::Roger that.::

But five minutes in, and they were already off beat.

::You see them?::

::Nothing on radar. Must be behind us—::

A streak cut through their formation like a blade of lightning. It screamed past them, nose-first and upside down, blasting between them so close it tickled her undercarriage. Instinct kicked in and she yanked the controls and flipped, Skywarp barrel-rolled opposite.

::SCRAP!::

::It's Starscream! Break left!::

::Breaking left!::

Replay dove to avoid but also intercepted her flight leader, even at risk of herself, breaking too sharply, throwing herself under Skywarp's wing.

By the time she straightened out, he was above her, banking back into position; it was too late for her to fix her position back with Skywarp.

They were already scattered, not even five minutes into the exercise.

Thundercracker's voice came low and amused. ::Where'd your wingman go, Skywarp?::

::Great question, Replay!::

::She just saved your aft, that's where!:: Replay snapped, recalibrating as she flared back up into view.

::Yeah? It's gonna cost her.::

Her radar pinged.

Replay had dipped low, far too low and she'd hugged the altitude line that was not allowed, given she was past the deck.

::Watcha doing down there, femme?:: Skywarp said, noticing with a mocking tone.

::Slag—::

She surged back up too late and the lock tone chirped while she was exposed..

::That's a kill,:: Starscream said, gleeful.

They reset.

Then lost again.

And again.

Each time Starscream or Thundercracker switched roles, she found herself playing catch-up, burning too hot or too slow, instincts outpaced by experience. They moved like predators in tandem, her and Skywarp barely coordinating fast enough to stay ahead, if they weren't arguing in between.

Even when she got close, Starscream turned evasive flying into performance art. He could twist physics, she swore he could.

The fourth time they died, Skywarp cursed so hard the comms glitched.

---

Then came time for their punishment, and they hit the ground hard—transformation drills meant shifting from jet to root mode, back to jet, back to root. Again. And again. And again.

It wasn't elegant, and it wasn't easy. It was usually meant to increase the efficiency in your transformation sequences, practice doing so quicker, quieter, and more... But in boot camps, it was often a way of drilling soldiers.

Skywarp grunted beside her as they rolled out of another transform. His plating clanged as he hit the dirt mid-motion.

"You good?" she asked, panting.

"I hate you," he groaned, hauling himself upright. "Why'd you agree to this again?"

"You bet on it," she reminded him, voice rasping.

Their limbs moved in protest, and their hydraulic lines sang with strain.

Above them, Starscream leaned smugly against a low-leaning strut of plating, one arm draped lazily over Thundercracker's shoulder as if watching a soap opera.

"How many is that now?" Starscream asked, sipping from an energon cube like he'd earned it.

"Thirty-six," Thundercracker replied without looking away. "You're slowing down."

"We are not," Replay growled, voice sharp.

Starscream cocked his head. "Could've fooled me. Skywarp, your landings look like you're trying to kiss the dirt."

Skywarp flipped him off mid-transform, almost face-planting on the landing.

"That one doesn't count!" he barked.

"Was that supposed to be a transformation? Kinda looked like you fell down and hoped gravity would finish the job." Jazz strolled into view with servos lazily swinging by his frame, looking far too relaxed for someone who'd clearly been watching the whole time.

Replay shot him a look as she straightened her shoulders. "Appreciate the support," she quipped dryly.

"Anytime," Jazz replied, eyeing her as he walked forward. "You crash real pretty."

She snorted, barely catching the flicker in his smile.

Skywarp groaned again, louder this time, dragging a servo dramatically across his faceplate as he finished another sequence. "Primus. Get a room."

Without missing a beat, Jazz, like nothing had happened, he kept walking right past them, giving Skywarp a light bump with his hip in the process.

Skywarp jolted mis-sequence. "Hey—"

"Oops," Jazz said flatly, already moving on.

Jazz was already leaning against a beam nearby, far enough from the other Seekers, posture casual, like he hadn't just embarrassed someone mid-sulk. His visor flicked toward Replay one more time, just a fraction of a second longer than it needed to.

But Replay was busy as she dropped back into a stance, gearing for the next transform.

---

The woods smelled different than the rest of the world.

Out here, it was dirt and heat and bark. The wind curved between trees in ribbons, whispering its way through canopy and branch, brushing her plating with ghost-light touches.

Somewhere far off, water ran over rocks, which she could hear.

And none of it was him.

Replay stood still.

Her optics were covered by a blindfold–or rather, a piece of fabric they found in her things–tied at the back of her helm with a double knot. She couldn't see the trees, couldn't see the sunlight spearing through branches, couldn't even glimpse her own outstretched servo.

This was the exercise on her senses. He'd added it to their stealth and sabotage training after a week of servo-to-servo combat. No weapons or tech, just instinct, awareness, and movement.

She was learning to fight without seeing. To move without being heard. To utilize more than just sight and get good enough at them that she wouldn't need to see.

He was out there.

Jazz.

The mech who could disappear in broad daylight.

The mech whose pedesteps didn't even stir the grass, couldn't be heard unless he wanted you to.

He'd been circling her for minutes now. She didn't know how many because she'd lost time trying to tune out the forest, at first, then trying to listen to it.

Leaves shivered... Something small skittered across bark... A bird let out a sharp call overhead.

It was all a whole lot of noise and distraction.

But he was out there, she knew it.

So she vented and listened harder.

She went still, processor softening into a low hum, letting her internals quiet. It was like dipping beneath a surface she hadn't known was water, like cutting the feed on static until something underneath it started to pulse.

She hadn't known which one of her senses was most dominant, as something soft made itself known when she asked.

It was like... a quiet tone only she could hear. It had rhythm, and without her sight, her processor, or her spark, painted that sound with color and texture, as if a soundless...sound could have those things.

It moved through the forest like a thread, curved around trees, rolled through the wind like it knew how to get where it was going. And it was pulling her toward it, not her processor or some indicator, but something burned hot inside of her.

That tone was so familiar, though she couldn't pin where she had heard such a song.

She followed it anyway, ever so curious.

Step by step, slow, deliberate, and as silent as she could manage.

She didn't waver and she didn't hesitate.

A normal bot might've been afraid to walk blind like this. Every step is a gamble and every shape in the dark behind her blindfold an imagined enemy. A threat. A branch. A fall. It was easy to let your processors try to warn you against what could be there while robbed of one of your critical senses.

But she felt none of that.

The song led her forward, and she moved like she knew.

One step, two, then three as her heel brushed moss. Her balance swayed, but she corrected easily, shifting onto the balls of her pedes.

Her servos stayed loose at her sides as her shoulder brushed rough bark, but she didn't even flinch. The song was so...distracting.

The pull of the sound deepened, clearer now. It wasn't singing, but it felt like it wanted to. Like if it opened its mouth, it would be... something smoky, slow, made for quiet places and unspoken things.

And then, her chassis brushed metal.

She froze.

The curve of her plating was pressed to his, she knew it was. She could feel hiis vents cycling quietly and feel the short gusts of air through the contact. The warmth of his chassis against hers. His field, too, close now, a soft pressure over her shoulders, not pushing, just present.

Replay raised her servo and slowly untied the blindfold, allowing the fabric to drop to the dirt.

And there he was.

Faceplate to faceplate with her. Jazz was still, his visor making his expression unreadable and yet...

He didn't move. Neither did she. They were too close to.

Their sparks were not touching, concealed by their frames, but they were near. And she couldn't help but feel as if she shifted even slightly, she'd hear his spark skip.

She realized she still could hear something.

That song, lingering in the background yet right in front of her, tugging relentlessly at some invisible force like she was tethered to the other end of a string.

The silence broke first from him.

"How'd you find me?" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, though the volume was caused by the situation more than intention. "Thought I was bein' quiet."

"Maybe you're rusty," she quipped back just as quietly, breathless even if she had no need for such actions. Her human habits lingered, as always.

He quirked a brow ridge. "Nah. You're just gettin' good."

She shifted, still not pulling back. "I... I didn't hear your steps, or vents, or anything. I think I could..." She hesitated, then said it, before she could second-guess herself. "I heard your spark."

Jazz blinked beneath his visor, frozen in time.

She rushed ahead before he could speak, unable to stop her intake. "Not just the hum or the sound of it, either. It was like... It was like a song. I don't know, I couldn't explain it. It was just there and it was so—" Beautiful, she almost said.

She didn't get the chance.

Jazz's expression shifted, still subtle and hidden under practiced control, but she could see the flicker of shock. It had caused her words to halt mid-sentence.

"Oh... I'm sorry. Is that not—"

He cut her off with the small shake of his helm, already smoothing himself back into that easy calm. "Nah. No apologies, darlin'. It's just... a little odd. Most bots can't hear things like you're hearin'."

She frowned, not liking the sound of that, to which he cringed at his mistake.

He couldn't even apologize because she was already asking, "So what does that mean?"

"Well," he said, cocking his helm to the side, "the average bot also can't do that little time trick of yours. But we won't worry about it too much. Not yet."

She honestly thought he had forgotten about that.

Instead of acknowledging that he did remember, he informed her, "Might mean you're an outlier."

Her optic-ridges furrowed. "Outlier?" It sounded foreign on her glossa.

"Rare type of Cybertronian," he told her easily. "Bots with... oddities. Gifts, some call 'em. Back in the better cycle on Cybertron, they didn't talk about it. Lotta outliers got treated like problems, were persecuted, cast out, silenced."

Replay's spark thudded once.

Jazz met her gaze evenly. "They got scared of what they couldn't control. Cybertronians and Humans ain't much different."

Her voice was small, choosing not to touch on the sadder aspect of that. "And you're one?"

"I am," he told her simply, far too easily for someone who kept this a secret from anyone who didn't need to know.

"I mentioned it before I think. It's my hearing. It ain't standard and picks up wavelengths no one else does. Tones, frequencies, conversations across the base I shouldn't, stuff no one else can hear." Then, lighter, "Well. No one else but you, apparently."

Their optics stayed locked, and she was suddenly aware of how close they still were.

She tried to process this as she asked, "You think I can hear like you? That might be my ability?"

He shook his helm. "Nah. I think it's somethin' else. But we'll figure it out."

Her expression faltered.

He saw it immediately.

"Your finials ain't sensitive like mine, so we can rule that out."

She blinked, optics moving up from his visor and her faint reflection in the blue to the black horns on his helm. "...Your horns are sensitive?"

He smirked. "Don't tell anybody. I've got a reputation, and it might put it in jeopardy. Especially with the terror twin's pranks."

Replay cracked a smile. "We wouldn't want that."

He smiled back at her, and there was that damn tug again.

"Cross my spark," she added, voice soft. Promising to keep that vulnerability to herself as if this wasn't the most vulnerable she had felt in a minute, being this close to him and hearing things such as the song of his spark.

It lingered there...that moment. Neither moved or blinked. It was like the pull of something invisible and ancient between them, quiet but tangible.

Her spark fluttered, and she wasn't even sure whose rhythm she was feeling anymore.

At least, until the quiet was shattered like glass and Starscream's voice called through the trees. "Training's over. We're heading out for today."

Replay jumped at his voice, feeling very caught as Jazz instinctively stepped back, his field withdrawing a breath too fast. She tried to ignore how her plating felt cold where his had been.

Skywarp came around the bend a second later, smirking. "We interrupt something?"

Replay didn't answer, and neither did Jazz.

Thundercracker appeared behind him, thankfully changing the topic. "We're good to go."

"I'll open the groundbridge," she said quickly, brushing past before anyone else could read her.

Jazz fell into step beside her. A little more space between them as even as the woods began to blur into the background, her spark still hummed with the song she wasn't supposed to hear.

And maybe, just maybe, he could hear hers too.

---

The air felt sharper when you were in front.

Replay leveled out in the lead position, altitude holding steady as the treetops blurred beneath her. The sky was a seamless stretch of silver and blue, clouds parting just wide enough for maneuvers. Her wings flexed as she adjusted speed, throttling back slightly to keep formation tight.

::Let me get this straight. I've been bumped to wingman?::

Skywarp's voice crackled through the comms like a brat with a chip on his shoulder.

::That's what happens when you lose. A lot.::

::Pfft. Technicalities. If I didn't have to carry you every time. ::

: I feel like you're forgetting this training is meant for me. You can just admit you're a poor teacher. ::

::Har, har.::

The wind rushing past her undercarriage didn't dull the edge of her amusement. Skywarp banked to her right, falling into position, still grumbling as his thrusters steadied to match her glide.

::So Replay. Mind if I ask you a personal question?::

::I imagine you'll ask me anyway.::

::What's the story with you and Jazz? Seems like there's something going on there, ya know. Besides your EM fields making my circuits frizzy with all the unspoken tension.::

::I don't know what you're talking about.::

She was about to pivot into a pointed redirect when a streak of crimson blurred between them and the sheer wind knocked them off course just slightly.

Starscream.

::Fight's on!:: he shouted mid-strike.

::Slagger!:: Skywarp snapped.

::Let's take this mech out,:: Replay muttered, tightening her angle.

She took the lead again, diving into pursuit. The air thinned as her velocity built.

Below them, the tree line blurred into textureless green. Starscream pulled high, banking hard left, and she followed instantly.

::Break right!::

Skywarp vanished with a pop!

Replay nearly cursed because her wingman had ditched her.

::Leaving your flight leader. What a strategy.:: Starscream's sarcasm was obvious as he looped around behind her in a tight arc. Her HUD screamed proximity alerts and she felt the tailwind of his pass buzz against her wings as he gave chase.

But even as she jinked and rolled to shake him, she heard the crackle of teleport energy.

Behind Starscream.

Skywarp had warped behind the enemy.

::Gotcha.::

Replay gritted her denta and yanked hard left, but Starscream was already locked on.

Her console blinked red.

::Hit confirmed. You're out.::

She groaned. ::Fragger.::

The match should've been over, being technically disqualified under the rules of one being out then you're both out, but Skywarp dove into the fight anyway, trailing Starscream with rabid intensity.

Competitive didn't even begin to cover it.

Replay pulled up out of range, watching from a higher cloud line, wings fluttering in the turbulence.

Below her, the two Seekers tangled like knives in flight.

They twisted and dove, slashing angles and breakneck flips.

At one point, Starscream pitched his wing at the last second, nearly clipping Skywarp.

The purple mech spun around, too fast, stabilizing mid-roll and pulling up after him.

Then Starscream went vertical, straight into the sunlight.

Replay rolled her optics, trailing at a safer distance to observe. Skywarp roared after his brother, stubborn to the last.

The sky turned white around him.

::Replay, I can't see him. How close am I? Replayyyyy?::

She smirked, her vents sputtering with a scoff. ::I'm dead, slagger.::

::Where is he?! Where is he–::

From above, Replay saw it all as Starscream dropped from the sun like a spear, perfectly positioned at Skywarp's blind spot.

::That's a kill.::

And just like that, Skywarp's HUD lit up.

---

Replay groaned and pushed off the dirt with one servo, dust trailing from her armor.

Behind her, Skywarp groaned louder, but more in complaint than physical strain.

"For the record," she said, brushing herself off after she finished her last sequence but opted to remain sitting on the ground. "I think Warp is ruining my game."

Skywarp snorted as he transformed next to her, shaking dust from his plating with exaggerated flair as he, too, finished. "I am not the handicap, sweetspark."

"Oh, really?" she glared at him, giving him a look only a femme could muster. It was dangerous.

"You wanna bet?" Skywarp was playing with fire.

"Only if you're finally ready to lose something other than dignity."

"Alright, you two," Starscream called, his tone bordering between bored and entertained, "as much as I enjoy the sound of a slow-motion breakdown, I've got a better idea."

Replay and Skywarp both paused, looking over.

"Thundercracker's flying with you this round, Replay. Warp, you get to watch."

"What?! That's not fair!" Skywarp threw his arms in the air like the sky was personally insulting him. "She needs me!"

Replay snorted.

Thundercracker approached from behind with that same unreadable calm expression he always wore. He moved past Skywarp with a shake of his helm. "You're loud. She'll fly better without the echo."

"Excuse me?"

But Thundercracker didn't dignify it further. He just stepped up beside Replay and offered her a servo. "Up."

She took it, his grip was firm as he pulled her to her pedes like she weighed nothing.

Starscream began prepping the next round while Skywarp trailed after them like a scorned pet. "Don't say I didn't warn you, TC! She bites. She cheats. She flies with feelings!"

Thundercracker didn't even turn. "So do you."

Behind them, Jazz watched the two walk away side by side with his arms crossed and visor lit in amusement.

He pinged her comm. ::My cube's on you, darlin'.::

Replay glanced over her shoulder, a cocky smile tugging at her dermas.

::I'll try not to use it all at once.::

And she winked.

Then they took to the sky and the world turned silent again with the start of the match.

Replay pulled high, slicing through a stretch of open air as Thundercracker fell into formation just behind and below her wing. He didn't chatter and didn't question her lead. Just flew.

She gave a signal, short barrel roll left, and he mirrored it exactly.

They banked, diving as they pulled through a tight upward spiral that split a sunbeam wide open.

Starscream was fast, darting between clouds, wings cutting like razors.

But this time?

They were faster.

They looped into position, Thundercracker flushing Starscream out of a climb while Replay surged forward to intercept.

She was reading the sky like sheet music now. Every updraft, every heat pocket, it was like she knew where he'd go before he did, thanks to her wingman.

::He's dropping, now!::

Thundercracker veered and Starscream slipped into his path–and Replay was already there.

Her targeting system blinked. Locked.

::Got you.::

There was a short pause before Starscream's voice came through the comms, and dare she say she caught a tinge of pride for her fighting with his own pride?

::...That's a hit.::

Thundercracker pulled beside her in the sky, as even as ever.

::Hey,:: she commed him, still in a bit of shock. ::That was good flying.::

He tilted his helm toward her, mouth twitching like it almost wanted to smile.

::You're not bad,:: he said. "With a real wingman. A definitely no drag.::

::Ha!::

Below them, Skywarp howled from the ground, already protesting the legitimacy of the entire match.

Replay just kept climbing, smiling to herself.

She'd won after these few days of transformation drill torture.

Finally.

---

Replay paced restlessly through her cave later that night, arms half-waving, half-gesturing in time with her voice.

"I'm telling you, Jazz, we had him. He thought he was so slick going vertical, but TC just baited him into it. I was already climbing, locked on before Starscream even hit the glare line. It was so clean!"

She stopped, pivoted, then walked right back the other way.

Jazz stood leaning against the far wall, one pede kicked back, arms crossed, visor catching the streaks of light of the energon. He didn't say much, but he didn't have to.

He was grinning as he watched her, like he had all the time in the world.

Replay finally caught herself and stopped pacing, flicking her servos awkwardly midair. She grinned a little, venting quickly. "I'm rambling, huh?"

"Maybe," he told her. "But I like it. You don't talk like this unless you're lit up."

She felt her fans kick on, brushing her knuckles against her helm. "It was just... a good day. Feels like I finally did something right."

"You been doin' things right," Jazz replied, straightening a little. "Today just let you see it."

That quiet stilled her... just for a second, and she softened ever so slightly. "What about you? You've been awfully quiet for a mech who likes to talk."

Jazz noted her jump at a subject change, but he wasn't going to let it go far. "Was waitin' for the right moment."

Replay tilted her helm, confused. "What?"

Jazz pushed off the wall, stepping forward. "C'mon. Got somethin' for you."

"Oh?"

He stopped just in front of her, voice dropping in that casual drawl he used when he was about to get away with something.

"Close your optics."

She blinked. "What?"

"You trust me, don't you?"

Her spark gave a little tug.

"...Of course I do."

He stepped in behind her... close, close enough she felt the warmth of his frame at her back, and she tried to quiet her overheating game and prayed he couldn't feel it as he gently reached around to cover her optics with both servos.

"Then keep 'em closed."

She nodded slowly, letting her vents settle. The room dimmed behind her closed optics, leaving only the sound of his voice that still buzzed behind her audials.

His servos lifted away, but she stood still, optics still closed.

"...You're not gonna make me walk into something, are you?"

"Nope."

Something cold touched her pede and she flinched automatically.

"You okay?"

"It's cold."

He snickered at that. "Yeah, it's a wipe. Just relax."

She scowled as he continued, feeling that coldness return, but she was prepared for it this time. "What are you doing?"

"Ain't you supposed to trust me?"

He felt air blow against her pedes, and she fought the shiver at the ticklish feeling.

"You're the one touching my pedes!"

"Fair point."

She felt him gently prod one pede, pressing lightly, almost precisely. The quiet buzz of his concentration made her optics twitch behind the blind.

Then, there was nothing except the faint tug in her spark when he moved away.

"Okay," his voice came, closer to her level again. "Open 'em, darlin'."

She did, coming faceplate-to-faceplate with the mech.

He wasn't smiling yet, and he looked... hesitant, though it was not obvious. It was like he was waiting for something.

He pointed and gestured down, and she followed–

And stopped.

Her pedes were covered in stickers.

Little colorful ones. There were dozens. All spaced out, but she could see the little designs. There were little cars, most of which looked suspiciously like off-brand versions of actual bots she knew. There were constellations, gold stars, a rainbow. A few animals. One dog. One owl, which tugged at her memory briefly. And there were several music notes littered throughout.

Replay stared, intake parted, but no sound fell.

Jazz rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less smooth than usual. "Figured with you no longer bein' able to wear your socks, this could be a good substitute. I've been collectin' 'em from Cora's sticker books. She's got a ton, didn't seem to mind when I asked, and—"

He paused when he saw the tear fall down her cheek, and his face fell like a dropped tool. "Ah, darlin', I didn't mean to make you cry. I'll take 'em off—"

"Don't."

Her voice caught, but she meant it.

She looked up at him, catching the worry on his face that only she could read. And she shook her helm.

"Don't," she repeated. "I love them. These are... these are happy tears, I guess."

She wiped at her faceplate with the back of her servo, shaky, but there was unmistakable happiness on her expressionbeneath the leaking of her optics. "Thank you. For doing this for me. I just—"

She didn't finish, because how does one tell another that no one had ever done something like this for her. Not like this. Never something this thought-out and personal.

Not just because.

Jazz stepped in and gently pulled her servos down from her faceplate. Then he wiped the rest of her tears away with his own.

"I'd do just about anything for ya," he told her quietly with such utmost honesty that it made her spark tug harder.

Replay breathed in, spark aching in that sweet, unbearable way. "I don't know what I did to deserve a promise like that."

Jazz smiled slowly, digits still lingering against her faceplate even when the rest of the tears had been wiped away.

"How 'bout for being you with me?"

She let out a breathy laugh at how cheesy that sounded, and he grinned a little more–given this was his intention–and glanced down at her pedes again.

"I hope the selection was okay. The music notes were my addition, Stickers."

Replay looked up again, taken aback by the sudden nickname. "Stickers?" Her grin pulled wide, more amused than incredulous. "That's what we're going with?"

"I've got a running list," Jazz told her, letting his servos fall from her helm. "But this one felt earned."

She scoffed lightly. "I almost forgot you had a thing for nicknames."

"Only the ones who leave an impression," he joked.

That earned a soft huff from her, more breath than laugh, and she looked away, just briefly, before nudging his leg with her foot. "Right. So that means Warp's nickname is what? Loudmouth?"

"Depends on the day, but yeah. Pretty close."

Replay shook her helm, fighting the curve of a smile. "I cannot believe you're calling me Stickers."

"You can," he said, tone easy. "And you will. Unless you'd rather go back to 'Crash Test.'"

And in that quiet cave, the two of them stood there with laughter still on their dermas, energon glow glinting off a thousand tiny colors at her pedes.

Notes:

Replay: Does this make you Sally and me McQueen?

Jazz: What are you talking about?

Replay: You've never seen Cars?

Jazz: I've seen cars... on the road. I turn into a car.

Replay: ... you poor sweet thing.

Chapter 23: Hold My Servo

Summary:

"Truth is... lovin' someone's a scary thing all on its own."

The sky felt wider without a wingman.

Replay leveled off at cruising altitude as the world stretched beneath her in an infinite color of soft clouds, distant green hills, and the gleam of the ocean rolling far below like liquid glass.

Thundercracker had peeled off twenty kliks back mere minutes ago, upon Starscream's call about needing to do this alone. She wouldn't always have help in the sky, and he deemed it important to learn to do this by herself.

And now it was just her... and Starscream.

Somewhere above her. Or maybe behind her. Or maybe not anywhere she was looking.

That was the other point.

::Your awareness is only as good as your blind spot.:: Starscream's voice crackled through her comms. He wasn't mocking her, but he wasn't warm either.

:: You lose the second you stop accounting for every angle.::

She rolled left, checked high, but her radar blinked clean.

She jerked upward, expecting an ambush from below that was maybe off her radar... but still nothing.

Her spark beat harder and she pushed faster.

A split second later, the sky blinked red with an incoming proximity warning. She snapped right just in time for a red blur to zip over her, rolling upside down above her cockpit like a ghost.

He flew inverted, canopy to canopy with her for a sparkbeat, close enough that her sensors tripped.

::Always be aware of your surroundings.. Don't rely on your tech to do the flying for you. Sensors can be jammed butinstinct cannot.:: Starscream's drilling was not to be a glitch, as many might think. But he was merely preparing her for reality. He was giving her all of the tools to survive, even if his methods could be brutal.

Then he veered left and up, cutting high, and looping around her with brutal efficiency.

She kicked her thrusters, chasing the vector trail he left behind. But she was catching up quick.

::Don't fight the maneuver. Control the descent and lead with your intention.:: The warning of his next actions had not clicked before he dove, and she followed, falling right into a sudden, tight twist. He was rotating into a vertical corkscrew that pulled her into it.

Her systems whined as her engines adjusted, but the Gs pressed against her frame. Her plating shuddered as they spiraled downward.

Truthfully, her attention should've been on Starscream, trying to fight the maneuver he put them in as some sort of test, to up the difficulty perhaps, but she could only stare downward as her flight became something subconscious.

The ocean below was getting closer as they spiraled quickly down thousands of feet.

Her spark seized at the sight of the waves as they churned like dark glass beneath her. The color blue sharpened into something wrong.

The wind hit her frame harshly, the pressure of the descent crushing her frame. She should've been focusing on this flight; she should've. He was testing her!

But... But the water wasn't water anymore. It was no longer falling downward toward the ocean as her processor convinced her she was drowning, fear grasping tight around her logic and smothering it, holding it underwater.

Her processors could only recognize water, feel the burn of drowning, see tiny fingers squeezing hers through the slats of metal, gripping desperately before they slipped away, see him crawling through a hatch, water pouring through the seams, turning everything dark.

Her spark pounded as her thoughts stuttered.

She couldn't breathe.

How strange was that? When she didn't even need to while in this frame.

::What's your move?:: Starscream pressed through the comms. His voice was sharp and commanding, but not unkind. As if sensing her fallout amidst his test. ::We're out of room. What's your move?::

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

The ocean got closer and her visuals started to haze. She didn't even realize she was stalling until her HUD started flashing at her, screaming at her to do something, anything.

::Replay!::

She heard his thrusters before she processed the shift, and he broke the spiral, yanked upward, forcing the wind into a roar behind him as he pulled them both out just above the surf. He gave her an out.

She failed the test.

She followed the tail end of his escape, barely regaining control, her thrusters kicking late. Her undercarriage grazed the sea, not enough to drag but just enough to feel it, like ice against her frame.

Mist curled up from the water's surface as the waves rippled from the strength of her engines.

She fell in behind Starscream, flying low enough to skim over the ocean in an almost-glide.

He didn't speak again for a moment, only slowing slightly. An opening.

He was giving her a second chance to strike.

She should've taken it, but her systems were still throttling from the panic, recovering from her previous episode, and she hesitated.

Starscream rolled up and over her in a flash, getting the lock on her after she blew her second chance at victory.

::That's a kill.::

---

Replay dropped to her knees mid-transform, her fists already hitting the dirt. Her forearms braced as she launched into another punishing rep of transformation drills–their agreed punishment for losing since the start.

Her shoulders creaked with the motion, but she had lost count of how many she had done until Skywarp's voice came faintly nearby. "Alright, alright, you're done. You hit the count."

She didn't stop.

The femme pushed herself through another transformation as strenuous as it might've been, pouring her frustration out into the motions.

Jazz's voice came next, softer and closer to her side. "Replay, that's enough."

She kept going, because the pain was better than the feeling in her chassis.

It wasn't the loss that gutted her.

It was the hesitation.

Her fear had won. Again.

She gritted her denta and dropped back into another transformation, dust kicking up beneath her.

Starscream crossed his arms and watched for a moment, helm tilted just slightly before venting. It lacked the exasperation of annoyance or frustration. Maybe disappointed. Maybe not.

He didn't say anything, though; but neither did anyone else. She clearly didn't want to hear it, so it left an awkward silence in the air.

Replay's servos pressed into the packed dirt, shoulders trembling slightly from fatigue she refused to acknowledge. Her optics were locked on the ground, refusing to look up at them as she drilled.

Behind her, pedesteps shifted and someone cleared their vocalizer.

"Well," Starscream muttered, tone lighter than the tension in the air, "guess we should get movin'. TC, Warp, let's go."

Thundercracker said nothing, just stepped forward in that same calm silence of his and passed by her.

Starscream's wings shifted and, without looking, he elbowed Skywarp just hard enough to shove him off balance. Clearly,the mech had been gesturing something in the silence, but she didn't care to see whatever her was mouthing.

"Frag. alright, alright. I'm going."

Jazz was the last to speak. "I'll get the groundbridge goin'," he said, voice even.

He paused as he passed her. Not close, but just enough that his voice reached, quieter now for only them to hear, "I'll be back, Rhea."

Still, she said nothing.

---

The Seeker trio and Jazz made their way into the cave as sunlight streaked across the rocky entrance, orange gold lighting up the place before it faded into the glowing blue of energon.

Skywarp kept talking, but Jazz had tuned him out.

He was already thinking through what he'd say when he came back as he powered on the groundbridge to their usual coordinates, Starscream walking through, then his purple brother–silence following his departure, thank primus.

But then Thundercracker slowed as he neared the swirled portal. Jazz diverted his attention to the mech, but he didn't say anything, so he followed his optics to Replay's work table of gadgets and other things of the sort.

As always, it was a mess of scraped-together tools. Wiring stringing about to be used for other projects, and other components, like she'd dropped them in frustration.

But then the blue mech gestured with his optics alone, to something tucked underneath a bunch of scraps she pickedfrom.

As if sensing Jazz locked his gaze on it, Thundercracker followed his brother through, and the ground-bridge shut, leaving him in silence.

Jazz couldn't help but walk over to what the mech had been indirectly pointing him toward almost... thoughtfully, and he bent down and gently moved the scrap off of whatever it was.

But by the time he had tucked it away into his subspace and made his way back out to the runway where he had left her, he found that she was gone.

The ground was still disturbed where her pushups had dug in, but she was nowhere to be found–and just for a second, his spark spiked in a pulse of sharp alertness that cut through him before he could stop it.

Until he noticed the light of the sunset dipping low, casting long beams across the hills and spilling between the rock gaps like a silent invitation.

He let out a slow vent, as he had known exactly where she'd gone.

And without a word, he followed the sun back to their spot.

The spot he would sit at by himself as he grew to love bits and pieces of this planet.

The spot he told her about, so she might be comforted over her fear of being alone, which had concerned her as she lived vicariously through him and his stories.

The spot she had sat, technically, much longer than him because of time mishaps.

The spot she sat alone, or given up whenever his previous version came through.

The spot she had waited for him.

The spot he had found his Rhea once more.

The two had found comfort in sunsets, strangely enough.

The climb wasn't easy, and it never was with the uneven rock, loose gravel, and narrow ledges that wanted to throw you sideways if you weren't paying attention. But Jazz had done it plenty of times before.

The last stretch opened out to a ridge of jagged stone where, at the very edge, sat Replay, knees up and forearms draped loosely over them. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon where the sun was dragging streaks of orange and deep violet into the sea of clouds.

She didn't turn when he came up behind her, but he knew she recognized his presence.

Jazz didn't say anything at first, either. Just lowered himself into a seat beside her, careful not to crowd her space, letting the quiet work the sharp edges off the day.

From this height, the air carried a softer bite, warmer from the last touch of sunlight as the wind pressed against the ridge in low, steady breaths.

She didn't look at him, but he was watching her from the corner of his optic, helm tilted just slightly her way that his visor caught the golden light.

After a moment, he told her, "You did good today."

Her optics didn't leave the horizon, but her jaw flexed almost imperceptibly, and she pulled one vent deeper.

She didn't agree; he knew that without needing her to say it.

Instead of inviting his counterpoint, instead of starting the loop where he told her all the reasons she was wrong, she said quietly, "It's sunset." A change of subject, and observation that held a bit more than what it, perhaps, was.

He smiled faintly at that.

"It is," he agreed.

They sat with that for a stretch, the silence heavier than the air but softer, too. The sun dipped another inch toward the line where sky met earth, and the colors deepened into molten gold.

When he spoke again, his tone carried a thread of something more certain. "You'll work it out. You've already got what matters."

Her optics shifted toward him at that, just briefly, before she looked away again.

Jazz leaned back slightly, reaching into subspace. "Speakin' of workin' things out..."

He pulled something into view, catching her gaze, only for the femme to instantly freeze when she realized what sat in his servos.

Her jaw dropped. "You... You weren't supposed to find that yet."

Jazz tilted it, admiring the craftsmanship of the two little metal launchers in his servos, his grin edging sly. "Apologies. I guess I jus' stumbled upon it and got curious." He then smiled at her, "What is it?"

"It's not–I didn't–" She stammered, then the words tumbled. "I've uh–been working on it for a while because I didn't want to see you stuck on the ground while I'm in the air, because flying is..." She vented sharply. "It's like nothing else. I mean, the trine is fine, they're great, but I kept thinking it'd be... better, I guess, if you were there too. And Sideswipe mentioned he once had a jet back at home, so I thought, why not try to build my own version? TC helped refine the aerodynamics a bit, but it's still–I don't even know if–"

He cut in gently, chuckling. "Don't overheat, Stickers. I can hear your fans kickin' from over here."

She bit down on the inside of her cheek–another human trait–venting slowly.

"Let's try it out," he suggested, confident in her skills.

Her optics widened. "It hasn't been tested."

"Then now's better than ever," Jazz replied, already turning the two pieces in his servos as if checking their weight. "Besides, I got a professional flyer teachin' me now, right?"

She shook her helm, a laugh breaking through despite herself. "Okay, okay."

He shifted so his legs stretched toward her, and she started fitting the first thruster assembly to his ankle. The plating clicked into place with a faint hiss, seamless against his armor.

Her servos moved with practiced care. "The linkage is processor-based, so once they're connected, you'll feel the input instinctively. They're balanced for minimal drag, and the control syncs with your stabilization gyros, not to mention they're small so they're not too noticeable, which is better than a bulky thruster dragging you down."

Jazz just watched her while she worked. The way her voice picked up when she was explaining something she'd built, the way her digits stayed steady even when she was clearly thinking ten steps ahead.

"They're also modular," she continued, "so you can detach them in seconds if you need to. Power draw is low; they pull more from rotational momentum than thrust–"

"You always ramble this much when you're nervous?" he teased, just to lighten whatever tension she might've held.

She looked up at him, caught mid-sentence, and narrowed her optics playfully. "You're just lucky I'm letting you try them at all."

His grin widened at her response. "Luck's got nothin' to do with it, Stickers."

She sat back to check the final fit, brushing dust from her servos. "Alright. They're on."

Jazz flexed his ankles experimentally, the faintest hum of the new hardware kicking in. His visor brightened as his processors filled with information."Let's see what these beauties can do."

Replay's pedes shifted against the ridge's uneven surface as she stepped back to watch him power the new thrusters. "Alright," she began, steady but still watching his ankles like a nervous engineer guarding a prototype. To Jazz, it was refreshing given Wheeljack's usual demeanor. "Small bursts... And don't try to push for height yet. Let's try just enough to lift your weight."

Jazz gave her that half-grin that meant he was about to ignore at least part of her instructions.

The low hum built under his armor, and the ankle-mounted thrusters flared, kicking up whatever dust lingered on the rocks, but he leaned into it too much.

Her optics widened at his momentum, pitched forward rather than giving him a clean lift. His frame lurched into her space, and suddenly his plating was pressed against hers, their faceplates inches apart. She caught him without thinking, her servos gripping his arms to steady them both before they went hurling off the cliff.

He flashed a feline grin down at her, visor catching the last streaks of gold from the setting sun. She "Y'know... I think I like you teachin' me instead." Primus, she could see her own reflection in that blue visor of his when he was this close.

She rolled her optics, chuckling as she shoved him back in retaliation for the not-so-subtle flirting. "You're impossible."

His arms sprang outward as the thrusters flared again at her sudden push, propelling him backward toward the edge of the ridge.

Her spark spiked in realization, cursing herself for her stupidity in pushing the mech who couldn't stabilize his flight.

"Jazz!" She lunged, servo outstretched to where he just dropped over the edge. But instead of plummeting, he tilted into the drop, thrusters roaring, and shot back up in a clean arc.

He came to hover in front of her, smirking at both his accomplishment and probably the concern written all over her expression. "Fast learner," he said, easy as anything, before extending his servo out to her.

She vented sharply, her arm still out where she'd reached for him as the sharp wind curled around them, carrying heat from the sun's last reach.

Her servo hung between them, half-offered, half-unsure.

Flying wasn't just movement; it was language. And to share it... meant being seen. She had been able to grasp that on instinct alone, thanks to coding.

But Jazz waited with an outstretched servo for her in a choice. Something much more complicated than simply joining him.

Her vents eased as she slowly let her servo close the air parting them and slide into his.

Her sharper digits curled around her own delicately, and she was suddenly very aware of how warm his touch was as her thrusters flared in sync with his, and they lifted together.

The air opened up around them in a rush, and the ridge dropped away beneath their pedes.

Admittedly, he stumbled a lot while gathering his bearings, but once he had the hang of it, he stayed beside her, adjustin' to her rhythm rather than forcin' his own, letting the Seeker beside him lead the way. They climbed higher, the last fire of the sunset spillin' over their armor.

The world was quiet up here, leaving just the hiss of their thrusters and the muted thrum of their sparks.

It was almost like dancing, in a very intimate, Seeker-like way that neither truly grasped.

They curved in slow spirals, weaving into each other's paths, the space between them closing until it felt natural to move together.

At one point, he spun gently under her, their joined servos pulling her into a mirrored turn. She felt the motion deep in her wings, an echo that wasn't hers alone, because not once had he let go of her servo now that he had it.

Then he angled them downward, and below, the ocean stretched vast and glinting, its surface silver-blue under the last of the light. The waves caught the peeking edge of the soon-to-be sleeping sun, turning them to molten bronze.

Her spark stuttered at the closeness to the water, but he didn't dare let go.

They leveled out low over the water, skimming just above the surface that had her vents locking up in hesitation.

And with his free servo, Jazz tilted down, letting his digits slice the ocean's skin. Droplets sprayed upward, glittering like scattered starlight in their wake as she watched his movement, optics flickering nervously between him and the way he touched the ocean.

She was surprised when he suddenly spoke, the first words spoken during their entire flight, "Don't be afraid."

As much as she read him, he was just as good at reading her.

Jazz knew what was holding her back, and she vented sharply.

Had she been right here above the water alone, Replay was sure she would've panicked and probably turned tail and run.

But that was the thing, wasn't it? Jazz could see the way she hurt without her needing to say so. The space they flew in was like a thousand doors opened up and up here she was her most vulnerable, yet with him, she hadn't found it in herself to care.

Because that warmth in her servo reminded her that he was there, just as he made sure she always knew. His servo he had offered had not just been a simple action, nor had their flight been, but it was saying a thousand words they couldn't muster.

That he'd be right there if she needed him. Whether it was to cry, to be angry with the world, or simply feel a thousand other emotions that might deter others, he was going to stay by her side as long as she chose to take his servo and get her through it.

That warmth in her servo lingered, giving her that push of confidence to lower her other until it hovered above the water. Then she let it fall, grazing the surface as the cool splash met her plating, sending ripples behind them.

Jazz was watching her when she looked up, his visor unreadable, but there was something in the way he looked at her and that utter awe on her faceplate. As if she couldn't believe what she was doing.

She smiled a little, not letting go of his servo before she asked without thinking twice. "Are you ever afraid?" She had nearly forgotten all about her digits dragging in the water.

"All the time," he admitted without a pause.

Her optic-ridges furrowed. "I thought you said–"

"You can be afraid," he quickly corrected himself as they pulled back up toward the open sky, deciding those baby steps of bravery were enough for today, "but ya can't let it run ya. Can't let it stop ya from what's possible."

The wind caught her wings as they rose again, higher into the cooling evening air, the sky turning to that navy blue and deep violet.

"You once told me I wear a lotta...hats," he went on, unsure of the terminology for a moment, "that it was hard to tell my real intentions. But you, strangely enough, always seen clean through 'em."

There was a pause before he admitted with a breathless chuckle. "You, darlin', scare me."

Wait, what? She huffed a quiet laugh of disbelief. "I scare you? Jazz, you knocked me on my aft fifty times during training the other day, and you've taken out entire Decepticon bases on infiltration missions by yourself."

He tilted his helm ever so slightly, and she was quick to clarify who had told her such information."Or so Bluestreak told me."

"My point being," she continued, getting back on track, "there are far scarier things in the world than me."

"Maybe."

"So why me?"

Just when you think one might take a pause to consider how to reply to such a deep question, Jazz surprised her with his confident answer that came without an ounce of hesitation. "'Cause the scariest thing sometimes... is carin' 'bout someone. Openin' your spark to 'em and lettin' 'em in. Wonderin' when somethin' might go wrong the moment they're outta your sight. Feelin' that fear that they could slip right outta your grasp." He paused this time, and for once, there was no joke following.

"Truth is... lovin' someone's a scary thing all on its own."

The words seemed to weigh between them, heavy and real as they weighed in on her and their flight.

"Have you ever loved someone that much?" she asked, servo gripping his a little tighter.

"Once," he admitted simply. But there was no explanation.

Somethin' in his tone caught her spark and held it. She didn't know why–not yet–but it felt like the air between them shifted as a spark pinged in her chassis at his words, an ache she hadn't prepared for, and she couldn't help but push at a feeling she didn't recognize, one she didn't realize she was returning. She squeezed his servo tight along with that feeling–

But it had wiped away as she felt a literal shock.

A current snapped between their servos like static, but buried deep in their plating. It didn't fade right away. It clung, pulsing once... twice... like the air itself was holding its breath. Her vents hitched as his field stuttered.

They stared at each other, both startled but neither pulling away–both oblivious to the ripple of their signatures in their moment of lost composure in...whatever had happened.

"What was that?" she gaped, voice barely above the rush of the wind with how breathless she felt.

He didn't answer immediately, still shaking off what she deemed as his own shock at the way he physically stalled, as if he had just been smacked by a cold front. Which she couldn't say she was better off.

His visor hid his optics, but his helm tilted just slightly, like he was studying her and reading the way her wings flicked, the faint tremor in her grip.

Finally, he gave the faintest shrug. "I'm not sure... " he cleared his vocalizer when it came out unsteady. "I'm sure it's nothin' to worry 'bout."

It was too casual, she deemed.

"Felt like static. Wouldn't be surprised with what we're made of." His joke did not land.

She narrowed her optics, suspicion in her tone. "That didn't feel like static."

"Guess you're just sensitive, Stickers," he teased, light as ever. But his EM field, curiously more exposed than normal, told her something else, as did her very good way of reading the mech she held.

She didn't call him out on it, though. Not yet.

They kept flying, but something lingered in the current between them, in the space their joined servos bridged. It was there in the way their fields kept brushing, in the fact neither of them let go even when they could have.

And in the way they both knew–without saying–that whatever it was, it wasn't done with them yet.

And whatever it was... only one of them remained oblivious to what had just happened, and that it had confirmed everything he had been dancing around since the very beginning.

Notes:

azz: ... holy scrap

Replay: *in fear* What? Was it something bad

Jazz: No, no not at all just... uhhh

Replay: WHAT?

Jazz: *glitches like prowl*

 

Okay! Guys quick little update. I'm moving back to uni this week and have a lot going on, and i've run out of written chapters, SO i need to fix some plot anyway and get ahead of the game before school, etc...

There will be no chapter come next Sunday, I'm going to do some off-screen work. I'll be back soon, though! Trust! Next chapter is when the next arc starts and things start getting a little crazy sooo I just need to refine my plans a little.

Anyways, I'll be back! Jus gonna literally pull a Jazz real quick.

Also, any guesses on what that "static" was... hehe.

Chapter 24: No Faith in Them Goes Unpunished

Summary:

"Shoulda known better than to expect anythin' else from a Con."

Notes:

A day early cause I'mmmmm really busy tomorrow

The control room was far too quiet for the twins' liking. It was that kind of quiet where the hum of the consoles seemed louder than it should, a steady drone that made them twitchy. Screens flickered with perimeter readouts, status pings, and faint data streams, none of which showed anything interesting.

Sideswipe leaned so far back in his chair that it creaked, one heel propped on the console like he was daring the system to complain. His helm tilted back, vents sighing."You think maybe if I stare long enough at this same scan feed, somethin' exciting'll happen?"

Sunstreaker didn't even glance his way. He sat with arms crossed as his optics tracked the same scrolling grid. His scowl was carved deep, the faint reflection of the display cutting a sharp blue line across his faceplate.

"Doubt it. Excitement doesn't happen when we're on shift."

Sideswipe groaned and let his helm thunk against the headrest. "Figures Prowl sticks us on the boring detail. We could be out stretchin' our servos, but no, we're babysitting screens."

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed, though not at his brother. Until he noticed a faint, tiny flashing on the corner of the readout, a spark signature blip so faint it could've been static. How long had that been there?

He leaned forward. "...Huh."

That was enough to make Sideswipe sit up. "What?"

Sunstreaker flicked the feed back a few frames, then magnified it. A faint energy spike, barely enough to register, pulsed in the lower coordinates. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, fast enough that Sunstreaker barely had the time to narrow his optics at it.

"Could be a glitch," Sideswipe muttered, seeming to think what his twin didn't voice, leaning close over his brother's shoulder. His grin sharpened anyway. "Or could be something fun."

The sound of approaching pedesteps cut through before Sunstreaker could answer. They looked up from the many monitors, surprise mirrored in both their faces as Jazz strolled in, easy as a breeze.

The saboteur moved with that same careless grace he always did, visor glinting under the dim lights. He looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

His timing was impeccable, but merely a coincidence.

What caught their attention was that he was even on base, which seemed to be a scarce thing as of late.

"Fraggin' quiet in here," Jazz drawled, sauntering up to the consoles like he hadn't just walked into the dead zone of boredom.

He didn't have much to do when he wasn't off doing his secret activity, so he found himself in the atrium where he'd soon exit when their scheduled time for him to appear on the island. Truthfully, Jazz was a bit like the human attribute of getting dressed hours before an activity, only to sit doing nothing but being ready for said activity, twiddling his thumbs.

He was starting to wish he was there twiddling his thumbs as she, Thundercracker, and Skywarp went through more flight drills–discussed prior that Starscream's absence for this session had been because he had been summoned for duty by Megatron, but saying nothing more than that to an Autobot. It wasn't unusual, as sometimes some of them couldn't be there.

At least he had some conversation with whoever was on monitor duty when Ratchet was caught up in the med-bay. "You two look like you're watchin' paint dry."

"Pretty much," Sideswipe said, cocky grin back in place. "Til' Sunny here picked up somethin' weird."

Jazz tilted his helm, curious. "Weird how?"

Sunstreaker didn't waste time. He replayed the blip. "Spark signature flux. Could be nothing. But it's... off."

"Hm, let me check it out." Jazz wanted to confirm before they had to call in Red Alert.

The visor caught the data reflection when Jazz leaned in, the coordinates instantly clicking in his processors just in time for his tanks to sink. For a split second, his frame stiffened, only a fraction, only enough for a trained optic to catch. But that mask went right back on before anyone might notice, and he gave a low whistle.

"Signal like that don't look like much t'me," Jazz said casually, shifting weight onto one hip. "Noise in the feed." Jazz was a very good liar, but that was because he knew the best way to do so was not straight up making up something and merely picking a small bit of the truth to focus on.

Sunstreaker arched a brow ridge. "It doesn't look like noise."

"Should we ping Optimus?" Sideswipe asked, given Jazz was of a higher rank, as much as he didn't act like it most of the time. "Get a team to check it out. Maybe we'll get some action, Sunny."

"Stop calling me that."

Jazz's intake curved, casual as ever, pretending nothing was wrong. "Ain't no need for that. If it turns out t'be somethin', we don't wanna waste Prime's time on glitches." He pushed off the console and straightened. "Tell ya what. I'll head out and double-check the grid, just t'be safe."

"You?"

"Yeah, me."

Sunstreaker shifted in his chair, suspicion cutting sharply into his gaze. "By yourself?" While they both knew he was more than capable of handling things himself, and had proved so for a millennium of war, it wasn't protocol.

Then again, the three mechs in the room never were much for the rules.

Jazz didn't miss the look, but his voice was smooth as oil. "C'mon now. Y'think I'm showin' up here 'cause I'm bored?" He leaned an elbow on the console, visor angled toward them. "Log the glitch, keep it between us."

"Why?"

Instead of offering an explanation, he smirked. "I'll owe ya one."

That last part landed. Both twins' optics flicked sideways, catching each other in that silent conversation they'd perfected over countless orns. Owe them? From Jazz? A favor like that was a bit like finding some rust sticks in this war.

Sideswipe's grin grew slow and sharp. "You don't usually hand out favors."

"Guess today's an exception," Jazz said, tone even and unreadable.

Sunstreaker didn't smile. He studied Jazz like a puzzle, his optics narrowed, his field unreadable.

Jazz recognized the way the twins went quiet, looking at each other in a way that indicated they were debating this over their twin bond.

But in the end, Sunstreaker gave a sharp nod. "Fine, your call. But if this blows back, it's on you."

Jazz straightened, calm as ever, but the faintest edge lingered under his words. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

The coordinates flickered to life on the console, green grids pulsing like a heartbeat. Sideswipe was about to walk over to the ground-bridge mechanisms and put in the coordinates, but Jazz was already over there.

Had he memorized the coordinates that fast?

The twins supposed that made sense, given Jazz's title of head of Special Operations.

he knew those coordinates by spark.

His servo slid over the control pad like it was second nature, punching the sequence faster than either twin could track. The groundbridge roared awake, casting the room in pale green light.

Before either of them could argue, Jazz strode straight through without hesitation. The portal swallowed him whole, closing with a low thrum behind him.

Silence dropped heavy over the control room.

Sideswipe sat back slowly, his grin fading into something more suspicious. "That was...weird..."

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed, cold blue slits following the last flicker of light. "Weird, even for him. And he's as weird as they get."

Sideswipe tilted his helm, grin tugging back in place despite himself. "Which makes me wanna know even more."

But before the conversation could spiral, the door hissed open and Prowl and Mirage entered mid-discussion, their voices low.

Mirage was gesturing with the kind of lazy flourish that said he thought he was winning whatever debate they were having, while Prowl's doorwings twitched sharp and irritated with every step, but he had much intention in each one as he walked right over to the twin.

Prowl's optics cut to them sharply. "Have you seen Jazz recently?"

The mech had no idea how well timed that was.

Sideswipe's grin stretched thin. "Sorry, Prowl. Haven't seen him since... uh... last time I saw him."

Prowl's optics narrowed. "And when was that?"

"Last time I saw him? Definitely the time I saw him last..."

Sunstreaker groaned aloud, dragging a servo down his faceplate. "Primus, you're terrible at this."

"Well who just left through the groundbridge?" Prowl pressed, tone clipped.

"Uhhh." Sideswipe's optics darted between the two of them. He shrugged with exaggerated helplessness.

Prowl's doorwings flared higher. He had been the #1 advocate for figuring out what the hell Jazz was up to. The mech had made himself scarce on base, and he was no stranger to loss and getting back to work because this was war, so his logical sensors deemed his behavior out of character and concerning.

Prowl was usually dismissed as being overly cautious, more on the Red-Alert side of the spectrum, but thankfully, Smokescreen and Mirage seemed to agree that something was up for months. They all agreed to keep an optic on the mech and figure out what he was up to.

Turns out, it was damn hard to catch the head of Special Operations off guard.

"I'm sure being on security detail, you might know who is leaving and arriving on base. Or perhaps you are even more incompetent than I once thought."

Sideswipe brightened, leaning forward like he'd just solved a puzzle. "Let's go with the second one?"

Prowl's wings gave a sharp, irritated flick.

Mirage pinched the bridge of his nose, venting a slow sigh. His tone carried that lofty, silk-wrapped sharpness only he could pull off. "Please, spare us both the charade. What did he offer you?"

Both twins sat up straighter, caught in the spotlight as they shared a look.

"What? Who?" Sideswipe asked, feigning innocence so poorly it almost hurt to watch.

Note to Jazz: never ask the twins for help again

Mirage tilted his helm, optics gleaming. "Given the circumstances, I'll make an exception to my own rule and indulge a wager with the two of you." He gestured faintly with his digits, elegant as if he were at a card table. "Whatever he promised you, let us double it. You tell us where he went, and we all walk away satisfied."

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker turned toward each other in unison, optics locking, and the room held its breath.

---

The sound of the portal closing cut sharply behind him, leaving the crash of the nearby ocean below as the only backdrop. Jazz's visor flicked, scanning quickly across the treeline, the half-hidden cave entrance tucked into the cliffside.

His casualness had been lost as he rushed inside, pedes moving quick enough to kick up dirt.

He stilled at the threshold, optics scanning the entire room just in case, but there was no sign of them being back yet or anything that might've gone wrong.

"Slag," he muttered under his vents, helm canting toward the direction of the makeshift runway they'd been practicing on.

She must still be out there flying. Did something else catch them by surprise? What caused that energon ping? It had to have been something big, something powerful enough.

His stride started that way, brisk but quiet, until the soft crunch of another set of pedesteps cut through the gull calls.

He froze, audials tuning in to the sound.

One of his daggers was in his servo before thought caught up, the blade spinning lazy in his digits–an old habit, the balance soothing even as his spark spiked sharp with alert. His EM field went tight, drawn in close.

Decepticons? Wouldn't take much for someone else to have picked up the signal, too.

He just had to find her before they did, assuming the two Cons with her would help her out against whatever caused that signal in the first place.

He slid into cover without a sound, pressing back against the rough bark of a tree amidst a shadow. The pedesteps came nearer, and he listened to the unhurried pace.

And just when they got close...

Jazz moved fast as he whipped around the trunk, blade high—

A canon wired to life a second too late.

"Primus' sake, Jazz."

Prowl's doorwings flared in instinctive irritation, field bristling at nearly being stabbed. Mirage stood just behind him, lowering his canon when he realized who it was.

Jazz blinked once beneath his visor before he snapped the blade back into its hidden palace in his forearm with a twist of his wrist. "What in the pits are you two doin' here?"

Prowl's tone was even, but sharp enough to cut despite having been caught off guard by the saboteur who nearly stabbed him. "That's precisely what we were going to ask you."

"Followed me, huh?" Jazz muttered, shaking his helm, a humorless chuckle caught in his vents. "Figures. Knew I'd make a spy outta ya eventually, Prowler."

"You've been disappearing for months," Mirage changed the topic back smoothly, folding his arms like he was addressing some game of high stakes rather than a comrade, Jazz never one to pull rank unless you gave him a reason to. "It was only a matter of time before we put the pieces together."

Jazz snorted, acutely annoyed by the distraction of what he was originally doing. "Pieces? All y'got is scraps. And you ain't got the whole picture."

"That is precisely why we are here," Prowl countered, stepping forward. "What exactly are you doing out here? What is this place—"

Jazz cut in, the easy tone stripped from his voice. "I'm afraid that ain't your business, Prowler."

"That's not an answer."

"Didn't say it was."

Mirage gave a soft, dry laugh, the kind that carried more edge than amusement. "So this is where you've been vanishing to? Lying to Optimus, running your own little operation?"

"Careful now," Jazz snapped, helm canting toward Mirage, voice low and dangerous. "Y'don't know what you're talkin' about."

The tension between them was a taut wire, ready to snap, but the two facing the visored mech were clueless as to why their presence was touching such a nerve.

But then it hit him.

Like a blade straight through his spark. Sudden, searing–not his own–raw panic and pain screaming down a tether he couldn't name but knew was real.

His vents hitched as his helm whipped toward the runway as fast as his spark tugged him to it.

He didn't think, didn't explain. He just moved.

Jazz was gone before they could process what happened.

"Jazz?" Prowl's voice followed.

He ignored him, already breaking into a sprint, transforming mid-stride, tires biting dirt as he shot down the cliff path toward the open stretch. The warning still buzzed through him, raw and relentless, every sensor keyed to it. Something about that strange feeling was screaming danger, and his coding screamed at him to do something, follow that tug and do something.

Prowl's barked order faded behind him, drowned in the roar of his engine. Mirage's mutter barely registered as their owntransformations followed, engines revving close behind as they gave chase.

The runway stretched ahead, carved into cliffside, ocean sprawling endless beyond, and the second he arrive, Jazz skidded out of alt-mode, plating snapping back into place as he scanned the skies, visor flaring bright.

That tug remained toward the empty blue. His spark was pounding too loud in his chassis, so loud that the mech who heard everything couldn't even hear Prowl and Mirage transforming behind him, striding forward.

He glanced at his ankles, only to realize she had taken off the new devices for flight for a few modifications. Otherwise, he would've taken off right then and there.

"What's going on, Jazz?"

"What are we walking into?" Mirage pressed, impatience dripping from every syllable. "Because right now, this looks very much like—"

Jazz wasn't listening. His field was spread wide, searching, pulling. "C'mon... c'mon..."

Then the sound hit—the low, distant thunder of jet-engines cutting through the air.

All three of them snapped their optics skyward.

The dark silhouettes broke through the clouds, fast and low.

Thundercracker leveled steady, Skywarp taking a klik as he held onto them from where they warped in. Jazz's EM field spiked as his visor caught sight of what Thundercracker carried.

Her frame. Unconscious.

"Frag—"

Prowl's blasters were in his servos before the wings even touched airspace. Mirage followed a beat later, rifle materializing in a smooth flick. Both weapons leveled at the Decepticons.

"Hold your fire!" Jazz's voice cracked like a command, servos raised instinctively. He didn't wait to see if they obeyed because he was already moving forward, closing distance as Skywarp, who finally had some more energy to give after taking a vent, warped them once more.

They disappeared with a pop!

Only to appear again at the end of the runway.

Prowl didn't lower his guns, and Mirage didn't either.

"Jazz," Prowl said, voice like ice, "step back."

"No," Jazz snapped, cutting him off without even looking.

He was at her side in an instant, dropping to one knee as Thundercracker lowered her down with care far too deliberate to mistake.

Jazz's servos were steady when he reached for her, but his spark was anything but. "Stand down," he bit out, sharper this time, directed at Prowl and Mirage without sparing them a glance.

"Jazz—"

"I said stand down!" The snarl ripped out before he could stop it, louder than he'd intended, the edge of fear bleeding through. His visor flashed, fierce and unrelenting, every line of his frame tight around his protoform.

Prowl's wings twitched once, twice, then lowered fractionally. Mirage vented, muttered something under his vents, and eased his rifle down with a theatrical slowness.

The air didn't relax, but the guns pointed to the ground, at least as they watched Jazz–whose focus never shifted.

His servos hovered over her frame as his optics scanned her so quickly, cataloguing everything wrong before he pressed down on an open energon line spilling blue over her red frame, stopping the flow.

His visor dimmed, voice rough but he kept working. "What. Happened."

The question wasn't aimed at Prowl. Nor Mirage.

It was for the two Seekers, standing across the stretch of stone with the sea wind in their wings.

Thundercracker was the first to speak, his field stiff with unease and optics flicking from Jazz to the unconscious femme at his pedes.

"Someone on the Nemesis must've pinged her location when she... I don't even know how to describe it," he said, voice steady but confused by whatever she had done. "A squad of scouts came flying by and caught her out on the stretch and intercepted."

Thundercracker shook his helm, as if recalling the event as he spoke quickly. "We were farther back in the drill. They didn't notice us. At first, we hoped they'd clock her old insignia and leave it. But... guess they figured her for a defector. They attacked."

His vents sighed, heavy. "And she fought back."

Jazz's servos were at work as the mech spoke, assessing the damage, such as the scorch marks etched across her plating, as he held the severed main energon line leaking minutely beneath the pressure of his digits.

If he had to guess, that was what caused her systems to fall into stasis in the first place, given whoever nicked her probably knew that it would send her frame into full-power-saving mode. His other digits of his free servo pressed into seams, feeling for anything wrong beneath her armor, which seemed to be mostly cosmetic, but he was no medic. He could only do and know so much.

His frame was bent close, visor dimming as he worked, each motion so fast that it was hard to keep up.

Skywarp's voice broke in, more defensive than his trinemate. "She had it handled. The training's been doin' her good. You should've seen—"

Jazz's helm whipped toward him, voice snapping like a blade. "You didn't think to help her? Warp her out?"

Skywarp's optics narrowed. "We couldn't. All of us knew the risk, and she said she had it handled."

Jazz gestured down at her still frame, one servo pressing into a cracked seam to hold the flow of energon steady. His voice was low and dangerous. "How handled is this?"

Silence cut sharply across the wind.

"You're only worried about yourself," Jazz bit out as he watched glowing blue stain the metal of his digits, already pooled around her chassis and dripping down, losing his composure enough to mutter in annoyance for them all to hear. "Shoulda known better than to expect anythin' else from a Con."

This was what he got for putting faith in them. Regret. Regret. Regret.

The searing memories from the war came spilling over and he suddenly wished he never asked for help as he stopped her from offlining beneath him.

Skywarp bristled, vents flaring in a growl that reverberated through his plating.

Before it could boil over, another voice cut in, much calmer than the parties arguing.

"Jazz."

He recognized it as Prowl.

He'd been silent, observing the situation with optics narrowed, data calculated in his processors and recalculated behind them.

Mirage, beside him, had the rare look of someone caught off-guard.

Prowl stepped closer, not crowding or intruding, but enough that Jazz felt the weight of his gaze. "You need to stop."

Jazz didn't look up, servo still working to make sure she wasn't offlining by even the slip of his servo.

"Listen to me," Prowl pressed, voice steady but his doorwings stiff with contained urgency. "You're moving too fast. There's only so much you can do here. She needs to see Ratchet right now. Anything else is wasted motion." His logic was working overtime, and it was actually...helpful.

Jazz looked down at her faceplate, still and quiet, field faint as smoke. The fear he knew she felt about going back and facing everyone clawed at the edge of his processor, but her systems were slipping. He had no choice.

His jaw tightened.

"...Okay," He finally agreed, his voice rough, dragged out from someplace he usually kept locked down. "Okay."

Mirage came over, glancing between Jazz and the femme wearily as he carefully slid his arms under her frame, slowly lifting her with Jazz holding tight to energon-line with a steadiness that didn't match the frantic spin of his spark.

"Should we call for a groundbridge?" Mirage asked.

Jazz shook his helm. "No, there's one here. Come on." There was no time to explain why, but thankfully, the Autobots seemed to recognize that.

The group moved fast, retreating across the stone path and into the treeline.

Jazz led the way, field tight, steps heavy but unhesitating. Prowl was close at his back, already pinging comms to set up what was needed. Mirage's optics kept darting to the femme, as if struggling to reconcile what he was seeing, let alone carrying. Or the way Jazz moved with him, close enough that he could feel his genuine worry and fear–something he was not used to feeling from the mech.

They broke into the cave's mouth, shadows swallowing them into the energon glow. The console sat tucked against the stone, humming faintly with standby power.

"Bridge for them first," Jazz ordered, jerking his helm toward the Seekers.

Prowl's wings twitched, faint irritation flashing, but he stepped up to the console without argument. His digits keyed the sequence that seemed to be cued, and the vortex roared to life.

Thundercracker hesitated and Skywarp's optics lingered on the femme, worry shadowing their expressions.

Jazz, as upset as he was, promised, "I'll contact ya when I can."

The two Seekers exchanged a look, then nodded once. They stepped through together, vanishing into the glow.

Prowl's digits moved again, closing the portal, then queuing another. Mirage shifted the femme carefully in his arms, optics flickering to the way Jazz's free servo held her dangling servo.

"Activate the button on the side," Jazz told him quickly, voice back in command mode. "B.E.E.P will automatically close it behind us."

Prowl didn't bother asking what 'B.E.E.P' was as his servo pressed the button without hesitation. The bridge bloomed once more and green and purple light filled the cavern of blue.

"Let's move," Jazz muttered, striding straight into the glow with Mirage.

Prowl was last through, the light swallowing them all whole.

---

There was only the echo of fast-running pedesteps on concrete and the faint hum of engines from the tunnel into base, having had the ground-bridge appear in the desert outside.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker both turned from their posts, casual complaints dying mid-word as their optics went wide as the sight hit—Jazz and Mirage striding in, carrying an unconscious femme with obvious damage and leaving a light trail of blue in their wake, Prowl close behind.

For once, neither twin had a joke as they were quick to their pedes and fell into step without being asked, silent as shadows and curious as to what in primus's name was going on.

The group cut straight through the main hall, not stopping for any glance their way by any passing, confused bots.

Their destination was clear, and they made it there all too quickly; the heavy doors of the medbay slid open.

Ratchet stood inside, hunched over a berth where Wheeljack sat, cringing slightly as the medic patched a thin gouge in his plating. The older mech didn't look up at first, voice carrying across the room, gruff and irritated at the sound of the door opening for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "What now—"

The words cut off the instant he turned. His optics widened as did Wheeljacks.

Jazz and Mirage were first through the door, their frames broad in the entrance. Then the others followed in a staggered line behind, silent urgency pressing heavy.

"What the..." Ratchet started, but Jazz's voice slammed over his own, fast and sharp, rattling off in a rush.

"She's losing energon fast out from a rupture in one of her main lines, plating scorched along the right flank, coolant pressure droppin' but I can't find the knick and her spark readings unstable but present—"

They moved as one to the nearest berth. Mirage laid her down as carefully as possible, the visored-mech still talking and listing every readout he'd caught with frantic precision, holding tight to her line.

First Aid burst in from the side corridor at the sound of the commotion, field buzzing with confusion as his optics caught the sight of the femme's limp frame and the suddenly busy med-bay, and his voice cracked. "Who is—"

His words broke when his optics dropped to the torn plating across her chest. The jagged edges of a missing insignia that was more than obvious.

Ratchet's optics narrowed, his field sparking with sharp disbelief. "You can't just drag a Decepticon into—"

"It's Rhea!"

Jazz's voice snapped like a gunshot, and everyone froze.

"She's Rhea!" His vents hitched, harsh and uneven. "So just fraggin' help her!"

The medbay was silent.

Wheeljack's jaw slackened. Mirage was still. The twins exchanged a quick, startled glance. Even Prowl's processor lagged, his expression briefly flickering as if logic itself had glitched.

Jazz didn't care. He hovered beside her as his thoughts churned like static, hammering one truth into him over and over.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

He couldn't lose her. Not because he wasn't there. Not because he was too late. Again.

Ratchet broke the silence with a snap of authority. "First Aid! Seal the energon line he's holding with a clamp until we can get into the proper repair. Now."

The younger medic jolted into motion as Ratchet pulled up a tray of his tools. He took over the spot Jazz was holding, allowing the mech to have his energon-covered servo back.

Between the two medics, they moved fast, practiced, their servos crossing and weaving around each other in the tight dance of emergency work. Ratchet barked for tools and clamps; First Aid shoved them into his servos before the words were finished.

Questions could wait.

For Ratchet, maybe.

But not for Prowl.

"This is impossible." His voice was clipped, harsher than usual, processors cycling too fast. "This femme... Rhea was human. And she's offline. The data doesn't..." His vents hitched, audibly struggling. "It doesn't make sense. I can't—"

Mirage gave a sharp laugh, brittle. "And yet here she is. I'd wager your logic circuits will simply have to keep up, Prowl."

Wheeljack muttered low, optics flicking with disbelief. The twins were silent, their stares locked on the femme, but their fields humming like questions unspoken.

Jazz didn't look up from her. His voice was tight, almost breaking. "Fix her. Please."

That last word dropped heavy as desperation edged every syllable. He wasn't asking for explanations, wasn't offering any. Just that one plea.

Ratchet's servos didn't falter. His vents pulled a sharp air right through, exasperated. "Primus, Jazz..." He glanced briefly at the mech hunched over the berth, then back to his patient. "First Aid, adjust the stabilizers."

A sharp clatter hit the floor as Prowl collapsed, his systems finally giving under the weight of too many contradictions to logic.

Ratchet rolled his optics hard. "Of course." His gaze flicked toward the twins. "You two. Get him on a berth."

For once in their lifetime, there was no backtalk as they hauled Prowl's weight onto another slab.

"Then everybody out," Ratchet barked, voice carrying the weight of authority. "We'll sort the details later."

The room stirred, movement and pedesteps retreating.

Everyone, except for Jazz.

He didn't move. His vents didn't even cycle. His frame was locked to the side of the berth, visor dimmed, servo pressed too hard into the edge of the slab while the other held hers tightly, yet to let go.

Like he was afraid if he did...

Ratchet's optics slid to him. Incredulous, but mostly tired.

"Do you want her to live?"

Jazz didn't say anything.

Ratchet's voice stayed firm as he worked. "Then I need to get her into surgery. And I can't work with you in the way. Your choice, Jazz."

The words cut deep, and Jazz's vents stuttered, his field sparking with raw frustration. He wanted to argue, to demand, to fight.

But the sight of her, still against the slab and feeling nothing in his spark as such a contrast to earlier, kept him silent.

He gave her one last squeeze, then he turned, storming out, each step a crack of static against the floor.

The doors hissed shut behind him.

Ratchet's servos were steady, servo pressure exact as he clamped off the ruptured energon line along her flank. Coolant hissed faintly where it had leaked into scorched plating, the acrid smell thick in the air.

"First Aid, prep for surgical repair," he barked, "I'll need a full energon transfusion line, spark monitors, medical-grade welders, and a neutralizing patch for the coolant breach."

"Yes, sir!" First Aid's voice cracked but his pedes were already moving, grabbing carts, unfolding sterile trays, pulling down cabinets with practiced speed.

Ratchet leaned closer over her, scanning her vitals projected against his HUD.

He worked down the list, muttering numbers under his vents, repairs he'd have to make, but thankfully, most of what looked scary was cosmetic. What he needed to work on was that energon leak and the coolant, otherwise her systems could shut down. Those were crucial to keep her up and running.

But then he stopped as he pulled up the spark scan, and his servos paused. Just for a second.

He looked at her chassis as First Aid began prepping her, as if he'd see physical evidence of what he was seeing on these scans.

Then his optics caught color other than red or energon blue, trailing down to her pedes instantly.

The plating was scratched, but all over her pedes were scuffed stickers. They were bright, ridiculous little decals humans used to plaster on their things–flowers, stars, some peeling under battle damage but still stubbornly there.

And his processors flickered with a memory that seemed to confirm it all beyond Jazz's words.

"...Primus above."

He forced his servos steady again as he didn't have the luxury of freezing. Not when it was her.

"Dammit, Rhea," he muttered low, voice rough, just for himself. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

First Aid rolled a tray over as Ratchet adjusted the stabilizers to her chassis, feeling the faint, faltering pulse of her spark beneath from losing so much energon from that one knick in the right circuit.

His processor raced, but he shoved it down. He'd seen every battlefield wound Cybertron had to offer. This was no different.

Treat the damage. Ignore the rest.

"Plug in the secondary transfusion line," he ordered. "Keep the flow steady."

First Aid scrambled, attaching the line with practiced servos. "Yes, sir. Spark monitors are live. I've queued welders and mesh patches."

"Good." Ratchet moved to make the proper repair to her energon line while the clamp held off most of the damage, venting hard through his denta. He glanced once at her faceplate, and tried to recognize the features there.

His spark clenched, but his servos never slowed.

"Secrets on secrets. Never thought that trouble-making mech had an ounce of sense in situations more often than not. Fraggin' ridiculous, keepin' me in the dark, sneakin' off—" He vented sharp, welding a seam closed. "Now look where it's landed us."

First Aid slid a transfusion line into place. "Flow steady, sir."

"Good. Hold it there." Ratchet didn't look up from his work, his practiced movements so quick but not a mistake was made. "If this goes sideways, I'll wring Jazz's neck cables myself. Stupid mech. Couldn't just tell me. No, he had to play spy." His mutter dipped low, almost swallowed under the hiss of coolant neutralizers. "And now I'm patchin' up the mess."

He flicked his optics to her spark scan as if it might've changed the last time he looked.

"Slag it all, Jazz," he hissed under his denta, glancing toward the door where the saboteur had stormed out.

First Aid adjusted the monitors quickly, trying not to show the nerves buzzing in his field. "Spark rate holding."

Ratchet's servos began moving armor off to reveal parts of her protform he needed access to in order to fix, weaving around mesh. "For now. Won't hold long. Stupid, fraggin'—" He cursed in Cybertronian, stringing together invectives as he burned welds across scorched seams.

First Aid busied himself with other injuries on the femme, his optics flicking nervously toward Ratchet's mutters but wisely staying silent. He pretended not to hear.

Ratchet welded a part of her back into place with precision that only came from centuries of practice.

"Vitals are... holding. For now." First Aid finally said, quieter than usual. But recognizing the severity of the situation. He had plenty about the human girl Rhea from the alternate reality.

Ratchet's optics dimmed slightly as if just a tiny bit of stress rolled off of him, but then he gave a sharp nod, already reaching for the surgical mesh for other repairs that were less urgent but needed tending to.

"Then we don't waste time."

He looked once more at the stickers on her pedes, bright against the cold metal berth, before forcing his optics back to the task.

This really was Rhea...

Notes:

Jazz: ... *glaring at the twins*

Sunstreaker: I'm unsure how you thought telling Sideswipe was a good idea

Sideswipe: He told you, too.

Sunstreaker: Leave me out of this

Jazz: *moves glare to TC and Warp*

Warp: *throws up servos* WHATTT DID I DOOO

 

I've figure out that this book is gonna be 4 arcs in total, I think i've worked it all out... and yeesh the things I have planned are crazy. Allll the way to the end

Chapter 25: Something That Makes Him Soft

Summary:

"The Hatchet givin' out hugs now? Should I get in line?"

The medbay was dim when Jazz slipped back inside.

He hadn't spoken a word since Ratchet had forced him out earlier, much less answer anyone's questions.

Jazz's optics went straight to her.

She lay on the berth, lines and stabilizers still hooked into her plating, coolant filters humming faintly in rhythm with her spark monitors. Welded seams glowed dim across her flank where Ratchet had patched the worst damage, mesh banding sealed where her energon line had split.

Everything else seemed to be cosmetic, some armor taken off and set aside so Ratchet could fix it up before her nanites would restore the paint when he reattached it. The worst of it was around her chassis and one of her hips, her wings mostly scratched.

Ratchet's voice broke the silence. Gruff, but steadier now. "She's alright."

Jazz's vents stuttered, faint relief tugging through his field.

"I've patched the ruptured energon line, repaired the coolant breach, and sealed the fractures in her plating. She'll need time, but her spark is stable." Ratchet's optics flicked briefly toward him. "She's tougher than she looks. Always was."

Jazz moved closer, his servo resting lightly against the edge of the berth. The relief was real, but it didn't erase the tension in his frame. His gaze locked on the faint flicker of her spark readout, as if he could will it stronger just by watching.

Ratchet followed his line of sight, then, after a long pause, his optics dropped to her pedes like he had done a thousand times since finding out.

His intake pressed into a thin line, then he looked back to Jazz, who hadn't moved his gaze from her readout.

"Now," Ratchet said with a certain quiet that was possibly more dangerous than his screaming, "I don't suppose you can tell me why my scanners are picking up your spark signature within her own."

"It's a..." His jaw flexed. "Long story, Ratch."

Ratchet's optics narrowed, the faintest twitch in his plating betraying the irritation he buried under a facade of calm. "Well, I've got time." He set his tools aside with a clatter sharper than necessary, barely restraining himself from hurling the nearest tool at his helm. "But I do suppose a meeting with Prime is an order." It was the only reason for his restraint, really.

For a long moment, Jazz said nothing. He just looked at her, lying there too still, the faint glow of monitors casting shadows across her plating. His servo clenched against the berth edge.

She hadn't wanted to be here—not back in this base, but the events that had spiraled gave him no choice.

He worried about when she woke up from stasis.

He finally nodded once, helm dipping low. "Yeah..."

---

The room was tense; every helm around the long table turned toward Jazz when he and Ratchet walked in.

Anyone who knew anything, plus Optimus, was called in.

Optimus stood at the head, his expression unreadable. To his right, Prowl with his doorwings stiff, processor already calculating, though it probably hurt to do so since he experienced a crash a few hours ago.

Mirage leaned back with folded arms, quiet and observant, while the twins slouched in their seats.

Wheeljack sat across from them, tapping his digits against the table before they walked in, likely trying to make sense of all of this.

Then First Aid, who had a data pad in servo, likely with her info for the meeting in case needed.

Ratchet strode forward with enough frustration and anger in his field to make those he passed shrink in their seats. But he went to sit in the chair beside Optimus, arms crossed, bristling with impatience, though his optics carried the weight of something heavier.

Now that the visored mech stood before them, visor dimmed as he kept his composure in his silence, Optimus finally spoke, "Jazz. I believe an explanation on what has been heard is a given, if you'd please." He said it like it was an offer, but everyone there knew otherwise. He had some explaining to do.

Jazz took a second, venting through his denta, then began.

"I found her when we first got back," he began with a much too low tone that felt so out of character for him.

"Since day one?" Ratchet interrupted with a snarl, "Are you kidding me–"

Optimus raised a servo, calmly silencing his comrade before motioning for Jazz to continue.

"I didn't want to believe it at first. I thought she had been a Con, but when I figured out it was her..."

"Why didn't you say anything when you knew?" It was Prowl who spoke what Ratchet was about to ask in a much harsher way.

"I wanted to, but she was afraid." A quiet understanding, though some parties more frustrated by this than others, filtered throughout the room. "I found out eventually that she didn't remember how she'd died, didn't remember Nellie."

The room shifted as the twins exchanged a quick look.

"Are there any other gaps in her memory?" Ratchet inquired with urgency, already wondering if he had missed something in his scans of some sort of helm trauma.

Jazz merely shook his head, appearing quite confused about this himself. Then continued, "Fragged up thing is that she didn't want to come back. She was afraid. Still is. She's been alone in this reality for about twenty-eight Earth years."

"What?"

"How did she get here before us?

"So she was just wandering Earth?"

"That doesn't–"

"Listen," Jazz cut off the sudden flood of questions, "she doesn't know why it happened, but her being here is a fragging miracle."

Sunstreaker rolled his optics, "You never thought to figure out what happened?"

"I'm afraid cosmic alterations across different realities and havin' one's spark being transported into a new frame across realities is a bit outta my field of expertise," The visored mech snarked back, words dripping with sarcasm. "I was a bit busy helpin' her work through whatever she hadn't been able to figure out about 'er new frame and species to question it too much. Forgive me for jus' wanting to embrace the miraculous miracle in front of me."

The golden mech didn't have anything to say to that, and no one could really argue with that logic.

To Wheeljack's surprise, many pairs of optics had turned to him when the talk of expertise had been brought up.

The fins on the side of his helm flashed white in surprise. "I don't have an answer for you. Being transferred to that reality was an anomaly in itself, and I had assumed that the recreation of that anomaly could only occur because it hadn't happened there yet–to put it simply. The physics of it are a tad all over the place, but regardless, to come back from the Well should be impossible... I can't say I've ever heard of something like a soul transported across realities, or why she'd be missing memories of her death."

Wheeljack hummed thoughtfully, his processors turning since the moment he found out about all of this. He began talking aloud, more to himself than anything, "Though I have many theories. The science of it is quite fascinating, and it's really–"

"Anyways," Ratchet interrupted with an annoyed tone, "Can we get back to why Jazz felt it was such a genius idea to keep her away from those who could help her?" He was the most upset about this decision than anyone else, even if others were curious why he made the choices he did.

"Because, she asked me to." Jazz quipped back, resulting in a frustrated huff from the medic.

"Look, I've been helpin' her. She was physically fine, but she needed help adjusting. She has been isolated for years and just figurin' this out as she goes. She had been helpin' with keeping humans safe behind the scenes, but waited for the moment we went to that reality and when we came back.

Even still, she was scared, and I can't say I blame her as much as I didn't agree with keeping her a secret." He gave Ratchet a long look during that last part, taking note of the glare that seemed to fall back into a 'whatever i guess you make sense but I'm still not happy' look.

"If you haven't noticed her frame, she's a triple-changer, and I figured out pretty quickly that she hadn't quite figured out how to use her flight-mode and it was, physically and mentally, very hard on her and her coding. She needed help that I couldn't provide... so I went to the Seekers."

That pulled a ripple across the room of 'what in primus's name were you thinking' being the main feelings expressed in the sudden uproar.

Sunstreaker's optics narrowed while Sideswipe barked a low laugh, sharp-edged and obviously in disbelief at thatdecision.

Jazz's visor flashed toward them. "I did what I had to do. She needed help and she trusted them, so I weighed the risks."

"That is a dangerous precedent," Mirage said evenly, though his optics narrowed.

"Maybe." Jazz agreed, quite upset with them himself. "But I put her first, and what they did worked."

Prowl, to his surprise, offered some explanation that Jazz hadn't gotten to while caught up in the uproar. "The Seekers' decision to aid her may not have been personal. It is possible they acted from instinct—a seekers-help-seekers mentality. Or perhaps as repayment for her allowing them sanctuary in her home. A truce honored. It was a risky sentiment, but the judgment wasn't too far off from the percentage rate of success in asking for aid."

Had Prowl just defended him?

"She was only caught because of that energon signature ping," Sideswipe concluded, beginning to come to his own conclusion–as hard as they may be to believe. "The Cons would have just as easily pinged it."

Jazz nodded, "Scouts got to her first. It was not the Thundercracker and Skywarp." He hated to defend them right now when he was so upset with their judgment, but he wasn't about to lie about the facts of the matter.

Ratchet grunted, arms folded tighter. "Doesn't matter why they helped or how they found her. The fact remains that her safety is at risk. If word spreads of who she truly is..." He let the thought hang, optics dimming.

Megatron would be most interested in someone that had come from another reality, whether it be for intel, science of recreating similar things for his benefit, or just the fact that she knew things he didn't know about her own war and what she may have discovered about his troops, see her as a security risk and... There were a lot of reasons he'd be interested, and it just added to the risk factor.

MECH was still a problem. They could only imagine the terrors that'd occur if they got hold of that info.

"Which is why we keep her true identity between us," Optimus declared firmly. "No one else outside this room can know who she is, or where she came from."

"What about the kids?" Wheeljack asked, "I'm sure Astryd, Maodc, and the kids would be thrilled to know she's alive." It was hard to argue with that. Everyone knew how devastated they were when Rhea had died.

The kids were in the custody of Rhea's friends, living normal lives while they stopped by for routine checks. They got to live a normal life, which is all Rhea had really wanted for them.

"She asks about them," Jazz revealed, turning every helm. None could be really surprised about that, but... "She misses them, a lot, but every time I brought up going back, she thought them not knowing would be better. She denied it every time I tried, and I don't think that's gonna change. She sees safety in them bein' away from 'er."

"You think them not knowing she's alive is really better–"

"I'm inclined to agree with Rhea's judgment," Optimus suddenly interrupted, confusing everyone.

A chorus of "what?" rang out from multiple mechs.

"Our human allies are currently unknown by the Decepticons, unlike the children from this reality. Their lives are in danger if the Decepticons find they are affiliated with us, hence the decision to keep an optic on them from afar. Which only worked because their respective signatures from their Autobot guardians have faded with distance." A quiet understanding, though frustrated, filtered throughout all of them, resulting in many nods and venting sighs. As usual, Prime was right on the matter. "If they find out Rhea is alive, they will have to come here to see her, resulting in increased risk that would be ill-advised."

He continued. "It is in her best interest to keep those who know who she is and where she came from to a minimum to minimize the risk of it falling into the servos of interested parties. That includes our fellow Autobots, I'm afraid. One misspoken word could mean an unfortunate fate for her."

Lying to your comrades was never ideal, but sometimes lies to keep one safe were necessary. They were all familiar with such a thing while in this war, and it was why no one argued with this, as frustrated as some of them may be.

Mirage finally spoke, optic-ridges furrowed, "And what exactly are we to call her, then? We can't keep tripping over her designation."

Jazz answered easily, "Replay."

That designation dropped heavily for one bot in particular.

Prowl's optics sharpened on the visored mech, a flicker of recognition no one else seemed to carry.. His doorwings twitched faintly, and his gaze found Jazz's, holding it longer than necessary.

"She's been going by Replay," Jazz continued, pulling his gaze away and acknowledging nothing. "To everyone else, she's Replay, a defector who lost her memories of before, Cyberton, the war, all of it. That's the story we stick to." He made this up on the spot, but it seemed good enough. Improvisation was his thing.

Sideswipe opened his intake, but for once Ratchet cut in first, gruff. "And if the others don't trust her?" That was a very big if, because there were some bots who would be unwilling to do so. It was all but certain.

Optimus seemed to be ready for this. "If doubt arises, I will take care of the matter myself. But I trust those here to step in if necessary to help her. I'm sure this has not been easy." He cast a glance at Jazz, knowingly.

After there were no more questions, Optimus dismissed Mirage, First Aid, Wheeljack, and the twins. They had been disappointed that it was just them being left out, but left anyway.

That left only Ratchet, Prowl, Optimus, and Jazz.

The air was heavier now, quieter.

Optimus spoke first, asking the obvious question. "How much does she know of her previous self?" Obviously, this frame did not appear out of thin air. She was in the frame of a once offline femme, and that was well known by certain bots within high command. Those who knew about Jazz's mission all those vorns ago and received reports.

Jazz's visor dimmed, his faceplate giving nothing away if the question or the situation bothered him. "Nothin'. She only knows the designation 'cause I suggested it."

Prowl cut in. "The Decepticons will know her. They will recognize the frame and the designation, but I calculate that changing her designation wouldn't have changed the resulting risk. They will mistake her for the original Replay amongst their ranks. Which is why her identity as Rhea must remain secret. It is equally dangerous for them to know the truth." But the tactician knew much more than he was letting on.

Optimus inclined his helm. "They will assume she is someone she is not."

Jazz shifted his weight, and his visor turned toward the far wall. "Yeah. I know."

Ratchet vented hard through his denta, muttering. "Stupid, stupid." His optics softened briefly at whatever crossed his processor, but his tone stayed sharp. "Doesn't matter. She's alive. That's what counts. We have to keep this that way."

"I know. I've been training her to protect herself." When he caught the medic's glare, everyone there knowing the femme's character, he quickly added, "Nothing beyond learning her new frame and things like spark signature training before she asked for more." He left out the moments caught in between, leaving that for him and Rhea.

Prowl's gaze lingered on him thoughtfully, calculating away as always. Jazz just pretended not to notice.

For Prowl knew the entire story of what happened on that mission when he encountered the original Replay. And the visored mech was surprised by his secrecy at this moment, but grateful.

"Did the scouts that attacked her get away?" Prowl asked finally, insinuating that if one of them made it back, the news about "Replay" might already be unraveling.

"I don't know. We'll have to ask her."

Silence settled in again.

Finally, Optimus said, "Then we proceed carefully. We keep her safe. She does not have clearance for missions, even when you, Ratchet, clear her physical health. While missions are never without risk, even the cover story and who they believe her to be will put a target on her back I cannot allow."

"You want to keep her cooped up on base like Ratch?" Jazz's optic ridges furrowed, not quite liking the sound of that.

"Just missions. Rhea is free to go where she wishes in disguise with proper notice like any other Autobot," Optimus decided, his word final on this matter, "Until an alternative can be found."

A silent agreement came in the form of nods.

Ratchet's optics dimmed, being the one to break the silence with a loud vent. "I agree," he muttered, arms crossing tighter. "But Primus help me if this fraggin' secret-keeping lands her back on my table again."

Jazz only nodded once.

---

Ratchet didn't have to drag Jazz back to the medbay, as he was already willingly on his way back to go sit with her, but he was tempted to drag him anyway.

The lights were still lowered to a dimmer setting, monitors casting their soft blue glow across the berth where she laid.

She hadn't stirred, and the steady rhythm of her spark reading filled the silence, but they already knew it would be a few days before her systems deemed stasis no longer necessary.

Ratchet's optics were fixed on the faint glow of the monitors as he busied his servos with unnecessary checks on the femme, triple-checking everything for her.

Jazz merely pulled up a chair to sit beside her, out of the medic's way, his helm tilted downward toward her servo tangled with his. They all had a feeling he wasn't going to wander far until she was up and moving, so his duties were put on hold.

So he stayed and stared at his servo cradling her own, eyeing the wire tethered to her circuit on the top of her servo as he held it carefully.

His processors reminded him of the way she held it the night previous as the sun set, their servos grazing the ocean water as he gave her the courage to do so as they–

He vented slightly, shaking his helm to push away the memory as he gave her servo a squeeze.

Guilt crept into his spark relentlessly, clenching horribly as that returning feeling of being useless made itself known once more.

Jazz knew he could do better. He promised that she'd never be alone again, and if he hadn't gotten there in time?

He would have never forgiven himself.

How could he not only break a promise but fail her again?

For a while, the two mechs were quiet, each absorbed in their own thoughts, but Jazz knew it was coming. The medic had gotten most of his remarks out during the meeting, but there was still something he wanted to know that hadn't come up yet. Not to mention that Ratchet definitely wanted to beat him over the helm with a wrench.

Jazz knew he wasn't the only one who cared about her.

It finally came as he felt something in the visored mech's pressing field that spoke a thousand unsaid words, usually guarded close, but he was still gaining his composure. "Jazz. Explain something to me."

Jazz was quiet, indicating for the mech to go on.

Or maybe he was hoping that if he didn't say anything, he wouldn't say the wrong thing that made that barely-controlled calm the medic spoke with disappear into a bunch of deserved yelling.

"Now that I've heard the whole story, I think it's time you explained something we both already know."

Jazz's vents pulled a slow drag, but his focus never wavered from the femme. "And here I thought you might've forgotten." A poor attempt at humor in a bleak situation, something he was usually good at. Maybe that was because he lacked the energy to even add a quirked-up derma, let alone a chuckle.

Ratchet snorted anyway, stepping closer, plating creaking faintly. "Can't forget a scan like that."

But when Jazz didn't say anything more, he pushed, " I'm not asking as your CMO, Jazz. I'm asking as her medic and yours. It is my job to make sure this team, including the two of you, is working properly as much as I'd love to finish the job sometimes." That last part was exaggerated, of course... Mostly. "Patient–medic confidentiality. What you tell me doesn't leave this room."

He already had his implications. He was not stupid. But he wanted to hear it from him.

Jazz's helm tilted, weighing the promise for a long moment. Perhaps finding the words before he resigned. "...Alright."

And when Jazz did find them, his voice was rough when with them. "I don't know exactly why. But yesterday... it happened. Neither of us were really expectin' it."

He shifted, servo giving hers a squeeze, as if steadying himself. "It wasn't planned. It wasn't... anything but instinct. Our sparks—" He hesitated, visor dimming further though you couldn't see his optics anyway, "—they just... reached. It was done before I even realized what happened."

Ratchet's optics flickered, recognition sparking across his processor. All the implications he had were coming up correctly as he followed down a mental list. To make sure Jazz understood how serious this was, he asked, "And do you know what happened? Why?"

Instead of answering, Jazz found himself reminding the medic, "Do you remember when I came to you, back at her home, about that... tightness in my spark?" He had thought he was having some sort of spark-attack, that perhaps something had gone wrong when he went from one frame to another.

Ratchet nodded, though slightly lost on where he was going with this. "I do."

"Well, it went away rather painfully when she..." he trailed off, unable to finish that.

Instead, he continued to the better ending, "But that tightness, it came back full force when I got back. And she was there. It was like it snapped back into place the same way it did when we woke up as those toys."

"And now that she had a spark, it was amplified by like, a hundred. I haven't felt that way since..."

Ratchet's optics cycle off for a brief moment as the dots begin to connect.

Spark calls were a very rare occurrence in the war. It was something that was rather sacred to them.

No two sparks ever sang alike. That was the first thing worth knowing. A spark wasn't a heart, not really. It was just the closest comparison because each one carried a rhythm of its own, being the soul of one bot. Some flickered steadily, plain as a drum. Others darted restless, sharp as plucked strings. And no two were ever the same.

But sometimes, rarely—two sparks, if willing and open and searching, tugged toward one another. If they drew close enough that their rhythms caught on each other, like two melodies locking into a riff no one else could hear... Cybertronians had a name for that: a spark call.

What came after those melodies met wasn't deliberate, not usually. Instinct answered before thought did. The call was less about choice and more about recognition—that impossible sense that someone else's song was already written into your own. If both sparks leaned into it, if they stopped fighting the pull, it deepened into an exchange. A spill of residual energy passed back and forth, bright as static but as subtle as a sigh. Or even a static touch.

It was not as deep as a bond, not yet. But merely the threshold before it.

The true bond—sparkmates—was something far beyond, something most would never touch. One in a lifetime, one only, if fortune allowed. A spark call was the step before, the hush at the edge of something sacred. Most who felt it never spoke of it. They didn't have to.

Because once you heard your spark answer another, once you felt your own rhythm catch and weave into someone else's, there was no mistaking it.

All Cybertonians knew that, except for those who weren't originally Cybertronian.

Jazz pressed on. "Didn't realize what it was at first. Was just tryin' to help her learn how to shield her field, keep her spark signature tucked away so she wouldn't light up like a beacon out there. Figured it was training, y'know?" He may have known about spark calls, but that didn't mean he realized what he was feeling...

"It hit me like two lines of music crashin' together the other night when we..." he trailed off, rubbing a frustrated servo over his helm. "I've been connecting the door and been feelin' it in our fields since. That pull. She feels it too, I see it. She doesn't know what it is, but she feels it. Just doesn't understand."

The word hung in the air as Ratchet's optics dropped briefly to her, then back to Jazz. His vents pulled a heavy drag, his expression tight as he seemed to be coming to the same conclusions as the visored mech.

No one ever got a second spark call, but something had been misplaced when they went to that reality. It was probably why he felt it once more, and it followed him here. That had to be the reason.

It was stupid chance, really. Entirely unheard of.

Normally, Ratchet would be shutting down all this crazy talk, but he...believed him.

The scans were right in front of him.

"So that's what you've been dancing around," he muttered. "Primus' sake, Jazz... you should've said something sooner.All of this should've been said sooner."

"It wasn't just that. I was helpin' her. She not..." the same as she had been before she died. She was still there, don't get him wrong, but it was like a new fog clouded over it. "Look, she doesn't know yet. I'm gettin' to it, but right now, with everything going on. I just–" He vented heavily, dragging his servo down his faceplate.

Ratchet was quiet for a long time, leaving the steady hum of her monitors filled the space, punctuating every silence, until finally he let a gruff sigh break free. "With everything else on her shoulders right now, I'll give you time to say something and come to me to explain things if she has any questions." He drew a heavy emphasis with a particularly serious look at the mech, who was already nodding along, that told him he wasn't messing around and there would be consequences if he failed his end of the agreement. "But I recommend some urgency in this matter, because this is a two-way street and she deserves to know. She'll figure it out. They always do."

Jazz's servo curled tighter. "I just don't want it t'frighten her. She's already afraid of comin' back here, of what she doesn't remember. If she knew this—" He shook his helm. "She ain't ready, and if it pushes her away from me..." He didn't quite want to think about that.

Ratchet studied him for a long moment. The saboteur, ever composed, now hunched with worry with every ounce of his focus tethered to the still femme on the berth. It was a sight he hadn't seen on him before, as much as the logic of what he knew about spark calls and the inevitability of what they led to, it didn't prohibit the surprise he felt.

"One can deny a spark bond on sheer will, but once that energy is exchanged, I'm sure you know that it's pretty permanent. But that can only be exchanged when..." It was meant to be a call and response, really.

"Get to the point, Ratch."

Ratchet glared at the mech with a quick cuff against the back of his helm, "When their spark feels the same. Whether they realize it or not. It's instinct, you slagger."

"You're saying–" but Jazz stopped when he realized something. "Is this you assuring me that she's not going to hate me or leave because–"

"One step at a time," Ratchet interrupted, turning the subject away from himself and that growing smirk on the mech's faceplate and back to the topic at hand. "She needs to heal. You need to vent. And for once in your life, Jazz... stop trying to solve everything alone."

Jazz vented again, seeming to listen to the medic's advice for once in his life, but there was something like relief in it.

Ratchet muttered under his vents, lots of pent-up insults and comments about the secrets and stupidity, as he turned back to check the monitors.

Jazz almost smiled. Almost.

---

The first thing she became aware of was sound.

There was a steady rhythm that was soft and pulsing, just on the edge of her awareness that felt like a cloud of fog.

She fought to push through it, the sound faintly and very slowly growing a bit louder, and louder... As it did, she realized it was artificial. It was...the faint hum of monitors keeping time.

Then smell hit her, a weird tinge of sterilizers that were sharp and clean and overpowering, but somehow just slightly different from a hospital. It reminded her of one, but something about it was a bit different. Like a tinge of walking into a mechanic shop, but that memory was far, far away in her mind from childhood that she could barely recall anymore.

There was the sensation of cold plating beneath her frame, rigid and hard. Her joints slowly rotated, coming online as she instinctively tested her mobility, hurting quite a bit when she got to her shoulders. Her hip felt so tight, and there was a pressure on her chassis that made her vents feel a bit more restricted than normal, but she wasn't awake enough to worry over it.

Her optics flickered online in a slow, stuttering cycle. Blurred lights reached her vision, optics quickly adjusting to the sudden white light, a blessing that came with being Cybertonian. Thankfully, they seemed to be dimmed anyway, letting her take in a ceiling she didn't recognize, shadows moving in the periphery.

The world tilted, her sensor calibration sluggish, and panic spiked before she could stop it.

She realized fairly quickly that that was not the rocky ceiling of her cave, or the blueish light of the energon that lit the space. Then the events that occurred right before she lost consciousness returned, bringing with it an accompanying panic, along with being in an unknown place.

Her vents hitched as she tried to sit up, audibly straining as pain rang out through her sensor at the sudden movement.

"Easy–hey, easy there."

The voice was soft and younger, gentle in a way she hadn't expected, despite it not pinging any familiarity with her.

Her optics refocused as she was forced to still, calming her sensors before her field met a steady one, trying to push more feelings of tranquility her way to prevent her from moving further–only adding to the servos that were lifted in reassurance right beside her, not yet touching but prepared to get her to settle for the sake of her health.

"You're safe," he told her quickly, and she recognized the kind voice he spoke with. "You're in the medbay on base. You've been in stasis for a while, but you're okay. I don't recommend too much movement yet."

Her racing spark began to slow in her chassis as she looked over at the new white and red mech, searching his faceplate covered in a visor and mask, half-expecting judgment, but found only patience.

"Ho–how long?" Her vocalizer was rough, strained from disuse. She audibly reset her vocalizer and started again. "How long have I been in stasis?"

"About a week," He answered gently as he adjusted the stabilizer lines hooked into her flank with practiced care, optics flicking back to hers to assure that she had his attention as he double checked her things. "You were hurt pretty badly. But Jazz brought you back."

Her thoughts snagged on that designation.

Without her notice, her spark tugged her forward faintly in a direction she couldn't place. It hurt, not in the way coolant lines ruptured or plating cracked, but in a deeper, hollower way.

She pressed her servo faintly against her chassis as a way to smother the feeling–though it didn't do much good.

She was more focused on her memories that stirred, slow and fogged but coming back to her.

The flight drill, the Seekers, the sky. She had... She was playing with her abilities against a warning from Vox. But that happened all too quickly. Then there was a flash of scouts appearing out of nowhere, barely minutes later. The heat of weapons fire. She fought, hard. The desperate way her spark had flared, then nothing.

Her vents stuttered. "Where is he? Is he—" Her voice cracked. "Is he okay? Are the Seekers okay?" Leave it to Rhea–Replay to be concerned about others when she was the only one in the med-bay.

The mech's expression softened as he dropped what he was doing with her vitals, leaving his servos open, posture leaning in a little as if to anchor her in place. "He's okay. He's been here with you almost the whole time. He was called out a little while ago for a meeting. I don't think he'll be gone long."

Relief loosened something in her chassis, though the ache in her spark only grew for a reason she did not know why.

The medic gave her a faint smile that she could only feel rather than see it. "I'm going to comm Ratchet. He wanted to know the nano-klik you awoke."

The designation caught her off guard.

"Ratchet..." she whispered, feeling her spark sink to her aft.

Memories slammed into her processor now that the fresher ones had subsided. The gruff medic from...

Her vents hitched, frame curling faintly against the berth's surface as the facts of where she was suddenly hit her all at once. That returning fear was like a servo clenched around her spark and squeezing hard,

It had been two decades. She hadn't seen him–any of them—in two decades. Not since... not since–

Every reason she put off going back to them came back to the surface, the spinning in her manifold that gave her that phantom sickness that shouldn't be possible in this frame that came from watching them afar from when they came to Earth, but had yet to know who she was. That crippling procrastination and putting off coming back and simply being happy with learning and spending time with Jazz and the seekers, shoving down that desire to be with them again, slammed against her.

Her plating prickled. Fear and doubt crept sharply into her lines, cold as the medbay air. What would they see when they looked at her? What would she even say?

That she was too scared to even face them? Fearful of suspicion for being in this frame? All the questions she couldn't answer?

That irrational human part of her that hid away in shame was a lot stronger than the need to fulfill that need for comfort and familiarity in those she cared about–because it sat a lot longer while she was trapped in solitude, falling deeper and deeper into what felt like an ocean of doubt. She was already lost in the depths when Jazz had to swim down to take her servo, still struggling to pull her up for air.

She forced her optics away from the mech, pulling her field in tight, trying to bury the unease. "I... don't..." Her voice faltered. "I'm not sure I'm ready."

He softened again, but he didn't push. He only nodded slowly, adjusting the monitors so they dimmed away from her face.

"That's alright," he told her quietly. "You don't have to be ready right now. Just... vent. One step at a time. I suppose I could do some quick checks on you before he comes in here."

She nodded gratefully, but his kindness unsettled her almost as much as the fear, because part of her missed them. Missed all of them so much. The family she'd once had there, as long ago as it may be for her versus them. The faces that were both strange and familiar. The ache of belonging she'd buried so deep it hurt to even remember.

Her optics dimmed, spark still tugging faintly, endlessly, somewhere beyond the walls.

The medbay was quieter now, leaving only sounds of the low hum of the monitors and the mech's pedesteps as he moved around her berth, occasionally asking her to cooperate with whatever test he was running.

Primus, she couldn't remember the last time she had seen a medic. She had never had the problem of needing one, really.

Guess she was just lucky.

She shifted slightly, optics following him as the awkward air lingered. She should say something. He wasn't going to, because she was obviously nervous and uncomfortable. It was easy with Jazz, and the Seekers practically slammed down those walls, most of them... But she couldn't remember when it got so hard to be social.

Her intake opened and closed a few times before she finally spat out, "I... I don't think we've met." It was a start...

The young medic's expression brightened faintly, looking over at her as she opened up a bit, at least enough for conversation. "No, I don't suppose we have. I've only heard about you from the others, in bits and pieces. They talk very highly of you."

Her spark twinged, but she covered that by nodding. "Right."

First Aid adjusted her stabilizer line, then tapped something into his datapad. "I'm First Aid. I work under Ratchet here. Which means I patch minor repairs, do basic check-ups, and help him manage the medbay so he doesn't completely fry his circuits. But I'm training under him to hopefully be just as good as a medic."

Her intake twitched, offering the smallest of smiles even when she couldn't make that optic-contact. "You seem like... a good medic to me."

"Thanks," He gave her his own smile that she could only feel. "But I still have much to learn." The warmth in his voice eased some of the tension in her frame.

She hesitated, then asked, "So... They told you? About me?"

"Only a little," First Aid admitted. "Not everything, just a gist while they crashed at your unit in your reality." He gave a faint shrug, oblivious to the way she clammed up a bit at the mention of the past. "My job is to make sure you're stable, and to ease your worries where I can. I take that seriously."

Something in his calm sincerity worked because her vents eased, tension draining slowly. "Well, thanks."

"My pleasure, Replay."

Replay...

Her optic-ridges furrowed, as she didn't remember introducing herself. Jazz must've...

He began running a series of scans, tools passing over her plating in practiced motions. "I'll just check a few readings to make sure Ratchet's repairs are holding, no leaks or misalignments."

She nodded, silent and letting him work.

First Aid tilted his helm as he knelt near her pedes, scanning down. Then he paused, his optics catching something.

"You know," he said, "I like your stickers." The compliment was an attempt at easing her further–truthfully, a similar tactic one might use on a frightened youngling, but he'd never tell her that.

Her optics widened, startled. "What?"

He gestured to her pedes and, for a moment, she just stared at him, processor stalling.

Her spark pinched, but she smiled faintly, venting out a shaky laugh. "Thanks."

"Of course," First Aid said easily, moving back up to check a coolant line. "You'll have to show me where you get them. Medbay could use a little color."

That broke something in her tension. She chuckled softly, lasting only a moment, but enough to break whatever tension was left.

They slipped into easy conversation as he worked about nothing in particular—mostly her asking about him.

He explained how long he'd been under Ratchet's instruction, how he'd been stationed here after Cybertron fell.

She told him only little things when prompted, but hesitance persisted. Thankfully, his patience didn't demand more. The rhythm of it calmed her and made the medbay feel less foreign.

Then the door hissed open, causing her to still instantly.

Ratchet strode in, optics locking right on her.

First Aid straightened quickly. "She woke up from stasis not long ago. I ran some tests, and all are within expected parameters–"

Ratchet's optics narrowed at him as he strode forward with a new kind of tension in each step. "And you didn't comm me immediately?"

The mech cringed. "I—"

Before he could say more, she found her voice. "Don't... don't bite his helm off."

The words slipped out trembling, but they startled both mechs into stillness. Ratchet's optics swung back to her sharply, but not with anger. Something else flickered there that she couldn't quite name, but she still couldn't help but instinctively hunch in on her shoulders.

"Rhea, how are you feeling?" He snapped back into himself like it was nothing.

Meanwhile, the name hit her processor like a charge, optics widening bigger and bigger.

Ratchet didn't linger on the reaction. He was already running his scanners, servos deft and precise even though First Aid just did most of the tests. "I need to check your systems," he muttered. "Your lines are holding, but I want to be sure." She glanced at the red and white mech, but he was already handing the data pad over, letting the CMO double-check his work. He wasn't offended by this intrusion, for what she didn't realize is that it was strictly because of who the patient was.

His tone was brusque, but his servos were gentle. He explained as he worked, each adjustment punctuated with gruff clarity as they avoided the massive elephant in the room, which they both had a talent for when wanting to. "You're hooked to cybertronian-grade analgesics, which are pain reducers. Keeps the worst dulled while your systems recalibrate. Don't try to override them."

She nodded, silent, letting him work.

But First Aid chipped in, "She was in some pain when she woke up, but I note it on page four and upped the dosage a little."

She blinked, not even realizing he had noticed, much less upped her meds.

Now that she thought about it, that pressure didn't feel so overbearing anymore...

Ratchet's optics scanned the datapad, grunting in approval before continuing.

The silence felt so loud that when he finally spoke, she jumped slightly. "You fragging scared us, you know. Offline for a week, system damage across half your frame, spark signature pinging so hard the Decepticons nearly got you killed." His optics narrowed, venting again. "Absolutely reckless."

The rant rolled on, his muttering sharp-edged as always but not cruel. She watched him, watched the familiar set of his jaw, the endless scolding that never quite masked the worry beneath. She just listened, taking it.

Suddenly, the fear didn't even matter anymore because... She had missed this, she realized when she realized her spark was aching the longer he went on and she watched him.

She missed the bots.

She had missed even grumpy old Ratchet.

And in her silence, the shoved down pain of two decades came brimming to the surface, with it coming a different feeling that caused tears to prick unbidden at her optics.

He noticed instantly, stopping what he was doing and staring at her intensely. "Are you in pain?" Ratchet leaned closer, scanner in servo again that activated and let her feel that prickly sensation wash over her briefly.

It came up clean of any rupture, and the drugs should be working, so he hurriedly asked, "Where? Show me." Had he missed something?

She shook her helm quickly, vents hitching. "No, I'm...no. It's not—"

But the tears came anyway, slipping out despite her attempts. Too many emotions, too many years of silence, too much solitude. Everything was all tangled into one ache.

Before she could stop herself, she reached forward from where she was sitting and wrapped her arms around his midsection.

Ratchet froze. His optics were wide, plating locked as his arms hung loosely in the air for a moment.

First Aid's jaw dropped. "Uhhh..." Part of him wanted to ask 'can she do that?'

Colored him even more surprised when, after a second or two, Ratchet's arms came down around her. It was awkward and careful at first, then tighter, pulling her against his chassis. The embrace was solid, grounding her and him in a way neither knew they needed as his field smothered her in assurance.

First Aid choked, utterly taken aback.

She buried her faceplate against him, vents hitching as she tried to find words but failed.

He spoke for her, voice low and gruff in her audial. "Don't ever do something stupid like that again, youngling. Or I'll give you the same treatment I give the terror twins, and wheeljack on a bad day." What he really meant to say was don'tscare him by dying again.

Her spark ached, but in a different way now.

The moment stretched until another voice cut in from the doorway. "Well, I'll be."

Both their helms turned as they parted, finding Jazz leaned against the doorframe, visor gleaming as his intake curved in a crooked grin.

"The Hatchet givin' out hugs now? Should I get in line?"

She blinked at the voice in the doorway, optics widening before her spark gave a sharp tug she couldn't ignore because relief hit her so hard it nearly made her dizzy.

That crooked grin eased something tight in her chassis.

While Ratchet, of course, was not amused.

"Jazz," he snapped, plating bristling as he took a step back from the femme. "Don't make me kick you out."

"Aw, c'mon, Ratch," Jazz said, pushing off the frame with a loose roll of his shoulders, ignoring the threat. His steps were casual but his field wasn't. It pulsed with bright and unmistakable relief, brushing against hers before he even reached the berth. "Y'gotta admit, it's a rare sight. Couldn't resist."

Ratchet huffed under his vents but turned back to his scanner, muttering something about "glitches and their timing." His servos stayed steady on her lines, checking every feed a thousand times over.

Replay didn't care about Ratchet's mutters because her still teary optics were fixed on Jazz. The sight of him here, whole and unscathed, smoothed some of the panic that had lingered since waking.

"You're alright," she murmured, her voice softer than she intended.

His grin softened, visor dimming faintly as if to match her tone. "Could say the same about you, Stickers. Though you gave me one pit of a scare."

Her smile trembled, but she eased into it, letting the warmth of his presence settle against her spark.

Still, worry pressed into her processor. "What about Thundercracker and Skywarp? They're okay?"

The grin slipped just enough to show the irritation underneath. "They're fine," he told her, hiding the edge that crept into his tone.

She caught it immediately, anyway. "Don't," she whispered. "They couldn't have done anything. If they'd been seen helping me... there's no telling what the Cons would've done. It was better this way."

His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly as he grew closer to her berth to be at her side. "Better? Don't look better t'me. Not with you laid out the way you were." The worry only she could really recognize in his tone cut deeper than the sharpest scolding.

So she reached for humor out of habit. "Well... you shoulda seen the other mechs."

That earned a bark of laughter from him, his grin making its beloved return.

"Yeah?" he said, cocking his helm.

"I got them," she murmured, pride flickering through the exhaustion. "All of them. I think Thundercracker caught me before I passed out."

Something eased in Jazz's field, visible even in the slope of his shoulders. He was not only thankful for her safety but also for the lack of loose ends that he needed to clean up.

"Well," he drawled, lighter again, "remind me not t'get on your bad side."

Her laugh came easier this time, though it caught faintly at the end. "You're impossible."

"Yeah," he agreed with a smirk, "but y'like me anyway."

They slipped into conversation as though no one else existed, and she found herself opening up without realizing it, just like she always did with him. That nervous cadence didn't make its appearance with him, and Jazz listened the way he always had, threading in light remarks that pulled her further out of herself.

Ratchet, standing just off to the side, watched them.

His optics narrowed, but...not with disapproval.

He saw her shoulders uncoil, her voice lift, her field open in ways it hadn't when she'd first woken. Hadn't seen sinceshe died.

He saw Rhea, the girl who used to fill the house with chatter and bickerings, who hated no one and never passed up a conversation, put everyone above herself, and had quite the attitude if she wanted. It was refreshing against this shy, reclusive shadow hovering over her.

And he saw why Jazz had risked everything. Why he'd vanished for months, why he'd lied, why he'd hidden her from everyone.

He was helping her the best way he knew how. Protecting her and keeping her tethered until she could stand again.

Ratchet's denta ground softly because, as much as he hated it, he understood.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't take the first opportunity to smack Jazz over the helm with a wrench for being so stupid.

"Alright," Ratchet finally broke up all of their talking and catching up, breaking the ease between them. "That's enough talking. She needs to recharge." There was an unspoken agreement about telling her about the agreements and plans that had fallen into place as she was in stasis to bring it up later.

Jazz only smirked, unbothered by the swatting of the medic, while Replay hid her small smile in the curve of her servo.

For the first time since she'd woken, she felt...safe.

---

The Nemesis command deck was alive with flickering screens and the clatter of Vehicons moving from console to console, doing their best to stay out of the way as they did their jobs and worked with a certain tension as if the ship itself were listening—Soundwave always was, really.

At the center of it all stood Megatron, arms clasped behind his back and gaze fixed on the void beyond the glass.

Soundwave worked silently at his station, digits gliding across hard-light controls, faceless and unreadable.

Starscream, of course, filled the silence with words, his voice sharp and grating against the hum of the room as he reported the status of something relevant to recent operations of his mission.

The doors hissed open with a jarring scrape, drawing every optic in time to see Knockout and Breakdown dragging in a battered Vehicon scout. His plating looked mangled, energon dripping heavy against the floor as his pedes dragged uselessly, helm hanging low, but their grip was unrelenting.

They hauled him forward, tossing him at the base of the command platform like an offering.

"Report," Knockout orders sharply, optics flicking to Megatron before turning back to the ruined scout. "Tell him what you told us."

The Vehicon twitched, frame shaking as his rough and static-laced voice finally came. "A femme... was at the coordinates. She... She bore a Decepticon insignia that was torn off. She-she slaughtered us. I—" His vents rasped. "I was the only one who made it back. Thundercracker and Skywarp were there, but... they did nothing."

A ripple passed through the command deck as vehicons turned from their stations, whispers buzzing faintly through the room.

Starscream whirled quickly at this, wings flaring. "Lies!" His voice cracked sharply through the air, lying as eas as venting for him. "You dare accuse my trine of standing idle in battle? Kill him for his blasphemy!"

The Vehicon flinched, curling low.

Knockout's optics gleamed, but he said nothing, watching the drama unfold.

"Enough." Megatron's voice cut through the noise like a blade and the command room fell silent. Even Starscream's protests died in his throat, wings twitching nervously on his back.

Megatron turned, optics burning red as he looked down on the scout. "If you lack the strength to speak clearly, then we will take the truth from you."

The order was silent but clear, for moments later, the medbay doors hissed open. The air inside was colder and hummed with the sharp whine of equipment.

The scout was forced onto a slab, thrashing weakly as restraints clamped down across his plating. His vents came fast and desperate, field spiking with terror. "Please—"

"Quiet," Megatron barked, almost bored as Knockout readied the cortical psychic patch. The device gleamed in his servos, cables uncoiling like serpents.

Starscream lingered at the doorway, doing his best to hide his nervousness, reaching out through the bond that was suddenly very quiet, but he didn't move to stop the events unfolding in front of him. Breakdown stood firm by the berth, a silent guard as Soundwave entered without a sound.

The patch engaged with a hiss.

The scout screamed.

The monitors lit, projecting raw memory across the medbay wall.

The scout's perspective tilted wildly through the sky—comms crackling, a squadron closing in on a single target.

A femme with a red frame, torn insignia off the side of her alt-moder flying in the air.

She hit them like a storm after the call was made to take her down.

A dive, a roll—blasters spitting fire that tore through wings and stabilizers. One scout screamed as he spun into the sea. Another she grappled midair after a transformation, small canons flashing before shoving him off in a plume of smoke. She never stopped moving—fierce with her every strike.

But she bled for it, especially after the initial attack when they got the drop on her. Her plating scorched, wings faltering as she still forced herself into the fight. Even hurt, she cut through them one by one until only the scout remained. He took a swipe for his life as he transformed, blade swiping near her neck that caused her to cry out, but she sliced him right back.

His wing had been struck, and he dropped, spiraling down as her optics went dark and she joined him seconds later in free-fall.

But it had been just in time to see Thundercracker break through the clouds at full speed, transform, and catch her limp frame. Skywarp flickered in, warp field crackling as he pulled them both away.

The scout's perspective blurred with panic as he fell, plunging into the water, his vision blacking out.

The memory cut to static.

The patch disengaged with a sharp hiss and the scout slumped into stasis, frame trembling from overload, restraints the only thing keeping him upright.

The room was silent but for his ragged vents, until Megatron's growl broke the stillness.

Soundwave's screen flickered, having done a scan of the memory as they watched, pulling up records in answer to his master's unspoken command.

Files scrolled in harsh green across his visor until a single image filled the display.

It was that same femme, someone in their records staring back with cold, hard features. Unlike now, her optics burned the same scarlet as the rest of her frame.

More of the files were shown, but most of the focus was on identification–so focused that they failed to notice Starscream's spiral of panic.

Replay. Decepticon Strategist

Status: Terminated.

Knockout tilted his helm, a thin smirk tugging his lips. "Terminated, hmm? Doesn't look terminated to me."

Megatron's optics flared, glinting with malice. "If she lives, then she is a deserter. A traitor." His voice dropped into a growl. "Such betrayal cannot stand."

He turned sharply, cape of armor shifting with the motion. "See to it that Replay is eliminated." The words hung in the air, heavy as a death sentence—because it was.

Then his optics narrowed further. "And as for Sergeant Thundercracker and Sergeant Skywarp..." His dermas curled in disgust. "See that they are questioned and dealt with."

The words dripped with promise, a deadly one that made Starscream's vent hitch. His intake opened, but no words came. He looked caught between denial and terror, processor racing for a defense that wouldn't risk his own plating of ending up in that chair and revealing more than he meant to.

Silence swallowed him whole.

The shadows of the medbay seemed to press closer, as if the Nemesis itself was listening, waiting for the screams to follow.

Notes:

Prowl (before they found what Jazz was hiding): Jazz is going through a phase... Oh, we hope it's a phase

Mirage: He bolts every chance he gets

(flashback of Mirage, Smokescreen, and Prowl trying to find Jazz on multiple occasions "Jazz! JAZZ!" literally running through base "JAZZ!")

Smokescreen: so we had no choice but to put him on a sparkling-saftey tether

Prowl: ... it's a leash. don't judge us

 

so I made a spotfiy playlist called Rhea and Ratchet, but I'm so hungover that I can't find the will to figure out how to link it rn, but just know that it exists and it's on my usual account (mikmerakii) if you want to find it. Hey! guys never do what I did! (on the bright side I now know how to write how I felt... chapter ideassss LOL)

but yeah brought to you by the the grumpy old father figure x some girl he found and decided is his daughter trope.

Chapter 26: Cashing in Favors

Summary:

"Wha? I thought you might recognize it. It's vintage."

Replay was dreading this moment, really.

Her frame was steady enough to stand, Ratchet's welds firm and holding, but the way her right hip caught when she stepped sent a hitch into her stride. Not pain, exactly, since Ratchet had dulled it with his concoction of drugs until it was more of a muted tug, but the limp was still there, noticeable and kind of humiliating. She could feel it in every drag of her pede across the floor.

It could've been a lot worse, really. She had been hiding out in the medbay for two weeks now, and Ratchet was astounded by how fast she was recovering. She had a little way left to go, but he couldn't come up with a reason for her to be healing as quickly as she was, except for coming back from the dead in a new reality. It was bound to have side effects...right?

And Jazz, Primus bless him, insisted on staying tucked against her good side like her own personal crutch.

"Y'know I can walk on my own, right?" she muttered, trying to shrug his arm away.

"Mm." Jazz hummed, easy as ever. "Sure ya can. Maybe I like being at your side." She shook her helm at his wide smirk.

Ratchet followed close behind, field like a storm cloud, while his optics kept flicking to the welds at her hip, the angry reds and silver plates standing out against her paint. He couldn't quite see the ones across the top of her chassis from where he stood, but she could feel him trying to see the weld through her.

Replay wanted to melt into the floor.

You're embarrassed, Vox observed lightly, ringing ever so loudly in her helm as always. They're looking because they care. Well... and because you're limping.

She scowled inwardly. Thanks for pointing that out.

As of recently, she had been forcing herself to talk in her head rather than out loud. She didn't need anyone thinking she was crazy...

Anytime, Vox replied cheerfully, like he (she had decided) had just done her a favor.

Her inward conversation caused her to skip a step as she stumbled every so slightly, and Jazz shifted his hold a little tighter, catching her weight before she even tipped.

"Stop glarin', Ratchet," Jazz said over his shoulder, thankfully pretending for the both of them that that hadn't happened as her vents kicked on. "She's holdin' up just fine."

"She wouldn't need holdin' up if you'd let her recharge properly," Ratchet growled, as predictable as the sunrise.

Replay suppressed a vent, picking and choosing her battles.

Her current battle that she had already processed but was desperately trying to come to terms with and reinforce intoher processor was what Jazz and Ratchet had explained to her—a few times, actually.

Only a handful knew the truth about her—Optimus, Ratchet, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, First Aid, Prowl, Wheeljack, Mirage, and of course, Jazz.

The rest had been given the cover story that she was a late-discovered Decepticon defector who had lost her memories and been on Earth for some time. She was recovering from a Decepticon ambush, placed under Optimus's command, but at least that last part was true.

According to the story, Jazz had found her and helped her upon realizing her condition, having known her before the war.

Her spark gave a pang.

She hated lying, especially to her friends.

Not forever, Vox reminded her. Just for now.

She didn't answer that. She didn't want to admit the knot of guilt tightening as she thought of looking at Ironhide or the twins in the optics and telling a story that wasn't hers.

Jazz was the lie-detector, of sorts, out of them, right? They wouldn't know as long as she stuck to what Jazz told her to do in the meantime.

She hoped.

And she also hoped this wouldn't last forever.

Jazz's servo firmed at her side as her vents hitched upon the door sliding back in their presence, revealing the main atrium of the base.

Replay hesitated at the threshold, Jazz at her side, Ratchet behind them, but she suddenly felt very alone.

The wide chamber of the base stretched out before her with high stone walls lit by human-designed spotlights, themassive ground bridge looming dormant at the far end, consoles blinking in quiet rhythm.

And filling the space were Autobots. So many.

She stopped dead in her tracks without meaning to.

Dozens of frames, most familiar, some not, but she could only really notice the conversations dimming into silence as their optics found her.

At a glance, she saw Bumblebee, Elita, Bluestreak, Wheeljack, but with her spark climbing into her vocalizer, that was about how she saw before her optics met the stickers on her pedes.

Oh, that's a lot of optics, Vox remarked cheerfully, but also in somewhat of a cringe. You could count them, if you want. One... two...

Not the time.

Suit yourself.

She watched her pede drag a forced step, then two forward, but stopped at the tinge in her hip. The limp felt worse here, under so many stares.

It's just the bots. It's just the bots... You're a liar. Her thoughts were a constant contradiction, But it's a good lie. To keep me safe until they find an alternative.

Her thoughts spun as dozens of optics swung their way, and she was suddenly acutely aware of every sound in the room.

The hum of the base. The shift of their pedes. The low murmurs. The beeps and buzzes of the nearby monitors. The tapping of Jazz's digits against his side, rhythmic tapping.

Her optics flew from the rest of the room to his digits that tapped, and a memory struck her.

He only did that when–

"Easy," Jazz murmured, pitched low for her only. He had unknowingly interrupted her revelation that he was nervous and stressed, too.

Spotlight's on you, Vox chimed. Chin up, femme.

It was very hard to do so when it felt like every optic in the room was peeling her open.

Replay wanted to vanish.

Optimus was waiting at the center, and she somehow missed him while lost in her anxiety. Primus, she hadn't been in a room with this many bots since, well, since her house. Or when she was in an energon mine...with smoke bombs.

Wow, did she really not get out much? She thought she made decent progress with Jazz and the trine in overcoming her new...issue of social anxiety.

A far away version of herself scoffed at the thought of that clutching at her spark in the first place.

"Autobots," Optimus's voice carried, yet she still failed to look up despite the familiarity. "This is Replay." Everybody had already gotten the spiel, and she was thankful she wasn't the one who needed to retell it.

Her plating felt too tight as of right now, so she was unsure if her vocalizer would even work.

Optimus continued, gaze steady on her. She could feel it. "As I previously explained, her memories are not quite what they used to be, but she has proven her intent. She is one of us now."

Translation: be nice, kids.

That name, though it hadn't bothered her before, strangely felt borrowed and foreign when facing the bots that were in her house twenty-eight years ago. Well, sort of facing them.

It was really, really strange to see them at this size.

"She will not be taking part in missions at this time," Optimus added, just to address any questions that might arise all at once.

The dead quiet made her feel sick.

Stage fright, Vox commented mildly. Good thing you've had so much practice avoiding crowds.

She bit the inside of her cheek, failing to realize her human habit on display.

A new femme's voice cut through the quiet, one she didn't recognize. "You expect us to trust her? Just like that?"

Yeah, she could've told you that was coming.

She heard Jazz's tapping stop.

"Trust is not given. It is earned," Optimus didn't waver, so very good at finding words when she felt it was impossible. She was envious, really. "And every spark has the capacity to change. So while my word might not be enough to change doubts you may have, I ask you all to have the capacity to try and see what you might not." Was he always this cryptic?

The femme, who she could only identify by the navy-blue pedes with pink lining, said nothing more despite the very obvious distrust radiating from her.

Replay expected nothing more.

From the far wall, another new voice, a mech, snorted. "Slag, Prime, you say that like you're quotin' scripture." She stared at his white and blue pedes. "So. A 'Con who lost her memories, huh? Don't remember slag?" Wow, he lacked formality.

She momentarily searched for a certain pair of red and gold in the familiarity that brought, but came up short.

Were they not–

Replay startled when Jazz shifted, and that servo at her waist pressed a fraction firmer. "Somethin' like that, Smokey." Jazz easily drawled. That casualness with a tinge of authority was there, but she managed to catch that tone. It seemed almost daring this 'Smokey' to question further.

Bluestreak leaned forward, words spilling before anyone could stop him. "So, wait, you don't remember anything? Not even Cybertron? Or what you did? Or who you knew? I mean, that's kind of wild, isn't it, losing everything—"

"Bluestreak." Prowl's voice cracked sharp as a whip, and quite possibly the last mech she pictured coming to her defense.

But the familiar mech made her optic glance up for only a moment, like the snap of one's digits, to see the younger mech from her memory.

She retreated fairly quickly at the amount of optics still lingering, but found herself looking back up at something she caught in her peripheral.

She hadn't noticed the human-sized platform against the wall, nor the kids on it.

They were leaning over the railing, eyes bright and practically hanging off the podium.

Like everyone else, they were obviously staring at her, but everyone else had been surprised that she had actually stared right back.

There was a teenage boy with dark hair, a girl with pink highlights in her hair, and a much shorter boy next to her who wore glasses.

"I think having a new bot around is cool!" The girl called, waving.

The taller boy elbowed her, trying to quiet her down, but she barreled on. "What's your alt-mode? Do you have weapons? You have wings on your back, so what's it like to fly—"

"Ep ep ep," Ratchet barked up at them, optics narrowing. She had nearly forgotten he was behind her until he was moving to her side, opposite of Jazz. "She is still healing and does not need your yammering overwhelming her. I believe introductions are enough as is."

All of that had been lost to her audials because she was too distracted by her own staring, accompanied by the painful twist of her spark.

The three kids in front of her were not them, but something in her processor... It couldn't help but remind her of what all hit too close.

Jaxon's laugh. Calix's questions. Cora's fearless streak. The ache came sharp, raw.

Her plating curled in without meaning to, not even realizing her optics were beginning to brim with a new wetness.

"Miko!"

"I didn't know!"

And then Jazz's servo shifted again amongst all the new chatter, just enough to catch her own where they hid behind their frames ever so slightly.

He gave a faint squeeze, and she pulled her optics away the moment her vents eased.

Her optics remained on the floor, even as Jazz bid their farewell back to medbay with some excuse about it being her physical limit of the day.

He was guiding her away as she heard the echo of Optimus's voice addressing the group, commanding attention back. "Our current mission remains. The relics of Cybertronian origin are scattered across this world. Megatron and his forces pursue them as well. What is the status of the current mission?"

"I'll contact the twins, they haven't reported in yet."

"Typical."

"Eh, Chromia keeps them in check." It was Ironhide, she thought she heard distantly, saying that part.

But their world and missions continuing on fell distant as the door slid shut behind them as they exited, yet she felt more frozen in time than ever.

---

The medbay had become her whole world.

At first, it was a necessity given the welds that still burned raw across her plating, hip repairs that made her limp uneven, Ratchet's perpetual threat to weld her to the berth if she so much as tried sneaking out and ruin that fast-paced healing of hers.

He didn't need to worry about that because even when the worst of the pain dulled and the scans came back clear, Replay found herself lingering. The medbay was safe and predictable, and it was rather easy to see everyone in doses. Even Ratchet, who often bounced back and forth between his work at the monitors in the atrium and medbay.

She'd been cleared to move into her own berthroom a week ago, though Ratchet was a bit weary given the speed of her recovery. He had no reason to keep her, as much as she wanted, with her clean bill of health, before deciding that her new treatment was to get out. Of course, he didn't mean that in a mean way, but his threat to start hurling wrenches if she didn't stop hiding in there was very real.

So, she left.

Thankfully, she found a new place to hide upon her discharge from the med-bay, a room being ready for her.

Jazz escorted her to the room itself, talking it up on the way there like it was something special—really just a copy-paste of all the other living quarters. It would be made of blank grey walls, dim lighting, bare and limited shelving, plusa berth. That last part would be a nice change, to be honest, from her makeshift one.

But what perked her interest was the subtle signs of his unobtrusive giddiness.

She hadn't realized what that was for until he showed her how to set her unique pass key, then the door slid open, and he allowed her in first.

As it turned out, Jazz had brought just about everything she could think of that she needed from her cave on the island. Her things were the last thing on her processor with recent events, but the sight of her things nearly set down for her to go through as she wished brought a peace of mind she was very grateful for. Obviously, not everything could be brought, but she was happy with what was there.

It was what made it so, so easy to hide away in the room now versus just the medbay. When Ratchet finally kicked her out, she retreated back here, where there was always something to occupy her.

Besides, she liked to think of the medbay as an opening to warm herself up in those small dosages. Here? No one could really bother her without that passcode, and no one dares to knock on the 'former 'Con's door.'

Well, except Jazz, who helped her make her passcode.

She could change it, but she honestly never minded his presence. He came in just about every day, sitting in his usual corner and watching her work.

Replay tried not to think about that in a creepy way, because it wasn't unless you thought about it too hard. She was more satisfied with the ease in her chassis whenever he was around, and it made her stress feel a thousand times easier.

Like most days, she had sat cross-legged on the floor now, sorting some of her projects into little piles, her hip stiff but manageable. Her helm nodded slightly as she hummed to a song from memory, white noise as her servos worked.

When her wings twitched, she shook them out, going back to work.

She hadn't heard him come in, nor noticed until Jazz crouched across from her, visor catching the light as he turned over a half-built circuit in his digits.

"You sure you don't wanna set up a bench for this?" He asked, curious more than critical. "Floor's not exactly ergonomic, Stickers."

He had suggested asking Wheeljack for help with making her a proper workspace, kind of like the one she had back in her cave. But that had been more of a 'throw things here and forget what's buried under the next project' desk anyway.

All she had really needed was a place to put her tools, and that was an easy fix. They were now all dangling on the wall alongside her proud projects, smoke-bombs and such.

She shifted awkwardly. "...I like the floor." Honestly, the idea of further minimizing the space of the room made her wings seize.

He chuckled low, not arguing, just putting the circuit back into the pile she'd inwardly labeled needs fixing.

The silence stretched comfortably as it usually did, and they fell into their rhythm.

She was busy relishing in the weight picked up off her spark when he asked like it was nothing, "Ya hung out with anyone yet?"

Her optic-ridges pinched together. "...Hung out?"

"Mhm." His helm tilted toward her, "The twins keep buggin' me about knockin' on your door since they missed yer entrance. Figured I'd spare ya of 'em until you settle in, but ya seem pretty settled."

Replay's optics darted back to her work, fiddling with a stripped wire. "I've... seen others."

"Uh-huh."

She shot him a sharp look, mocking back, "Uh-huh." Then her voice was a little quieter in admitting, "...in passing."

Smooth, Vox piped in, amused. Real convincing.

Jazz leaned back on his servos, snickering a bit. She glared at him for it, tossing the nearest tool by her at him, which so happened to be a wrench.

He caught it easily before it hit him, setting it back down before suggesting, "Y'know, Bee said somethin' about invitin' us to game night with the kids."

Her spark squeezed uncomfortably tight at their mention, but she did her utmost best to hide it.

"Sounds fun," She murmured, quickly busying her servos once more. "But I think I'm...I'm gonna stay in." For what she didn't want to admit was that the kids made her spark hurt.

"No worries," Jazz didn't ask why or push when she denied. Just tipped his helm in a nod as if it was nothing. "I'll let Bee know we're stayin' in tonight."

Small mercies, Vox whispered as if anyone else could hear that nagging voice in her helm.

Shut it.

"You could go," she found the courage to say after a while, still focused on her piles. "Game night sounds fun. Don't let me keep you stuck here. I was just gonna..." she gestured vaguely at the scattered parts, "work."

"That's okay," he said all too quickly, and she wouldn't dare admit the way her spark pulse in relief that he wanted to stay. Or the way it warmed when he smiled at her. "I'd rather spend time with you, Stickers."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It wasn't awkward. Just full, as if Jazz had carved out space where she could vent without being dragged anywhere she wasn't ready to go.

She appreciated it. A lot.

So, she just kept sorting her things and let Jazz's presence fill the rest.

The parts scattered in careful piles around her servos blurred when the first notes crept into the room. They made her pause mid-motion.

"Life could be a dream."

Replay blinked, helm lifting in utter confusion as the old-fashioned tune played, warm in its rhythm, like sunlight breaking through.

"Life could be a dream... do-do-do-do sh-boom!"

She looked right at Jazz with the snap of her helm, confusion evident on her faceplate. "What's with the music?"

Jazz's chuckle rolled as music played from his internal radio, "Wha? I thought you might recognize it. It's vintage."

She stared, still holding a length of stripped wire in her servo as it took a few seconds for her to figure out what the hell he was talking about.

Then that one conversation back in her world dawned on her.

She shook her helm in disbelief. "Again, you're a few decades off from my favorite old music."

He shrugged as if it was all the same.

"But why are you playing music?"

"Cashing in my favor," he told her smoothly with that infuriating grin.

"Favor?"

A servo fell to his chassis as if momentarily wounded. "Don't tell me you forgot. I believe I won that Just Dance battle you challenged me to fair an' square."

The memory flickered—her own flushed cheeks burning from dancing and being under the influence while following the characters on the screen—she pushed it away fast, intake parting in surprise. "You remembered that?" She certainly didn't. He never brought up the favor of his choosing again.

"Sure did," His tone carried that easy swagger, all too happy for her predicament. "And if I recall, I was also promised a dance when we were dance partner sized. Odds seemed to be stacked in my favor, darlin'."

She hadn't expected him to actually hold onto that, given she didn't picture herself ever being here at that point in her life.

Her plating warmed. "You're serious."

"Always," he said cheerfully, extending his servo. "C'mon. I think a fun night with no work is deserved after all the scrap ya been through recently."

Replay's vents gushed a sigh as she glanced from his outstretched servo to the floor. "...You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, but I'm fun," he countered, wiggling his digits teasingly, as if tempting her closer. "Now, you joinin' me, or do I gotta dance both parts?"

A startled laugh broke free before she could stop it, and she was shaking her helm as she set the wire aside and placed her servo in his.

"Attafemme." His grin only widened as he tugged her gently to her pedes. "Knew you wouldn't leave me hangin'."

Jazz guided her up, sliding one servo gently to her waist, the other holding hers steady.

"If only all my precious plans would come true."

Instead of the slow sway she was expecting, he bounced them right into the beat in light, playful steps that matched the song's rhythm. It made a startled sound of glee leave her intake, but she fell into step easily.

"If you would spend my whole life lovin' you."

He gave her a little swing as they worked through quick pivots, one of the digits resting against her waist, tapping out the count as if he'd drilled it beforehand. She almost asked how he knew how to swing dance, given they had no characters to follow, and she imagined Cybertonian dancing to be a bit different, until it hit her.

"Every time I look at you, something is on my mind."

Her intake curved despite her best efforts, dermas trembling between disbelief and laughter.

"If you do what I want you to, baby, we'd be so fine."

He had researched this. She could see it in the way he tossed in a spin, the way he let go only to catch her back a second later, dramatic on purpose just to make her laugh.

And laugh she did, quick and bright, surprising herself with how natural it felt.

"Oh, life could be a dream!"

Jazz's radio crackled with the warmth of vinyl, the melody bouncing off her walls, just loud enough that you might only hear it if you passed her door. But it was game night, so for now, it was just the two of them.

As the music carried off into jazzy sax and sh-booms, Jazz slowed their movement so he could say, "See? Nothin' to it."

Her spark gave a sharp, fluttering pulse. She tried to glance away, but he caught her gaze in the tilt of his helm, in the way he didn't need optics to read her.

"You don't play fair," she accused lightly of the use of his favor.

"Never claimed to." He swung her under his arm, laughter rumbling low in his engine when she stumbled back into his frame. "But admit it. I make a decent partner."

A smile bloomed that she couldn't smother.. It felt foreign, given the past few weeks, and familiar all at once when with him, pulling something loose in her chassis.

Jazz felt it in the way her weight leaned into his a fraction more, in the way her servo lingered in his instead of pulling away. And that was enough to make his field hum with quiet satisfaction spilling through every line of his frame.

Mission: make her truly laugh since being on base was accomplished.

And who was he to not enjoy his efforts when it involved dancing with her?

"So, you researched human swing?" she couldn't help but ask, that smile showing no signs of falling.

"Mm." He nodded solemnly, then ruined it with a grin in his voice.

"Might've spent a night or two watchin' humans trip over each other on YouTube. Raf helped me find a few."

That dragged a laugh out of her, sudden and beautifully bright.

"Oh..."

She clamped a servo over her intake like she could shove it back in, but Jazz only swung his arm around her, as if that laugh was exactly the beat he'd been waiting for.

And with her side-by-side, facing opposite him, he released her waist, holding only her servo as she dropped down.

"Life could be a dream!"

Replay gasped as she bent her knees on the way down, helm parallel with the floor as their arms were fully extended. "Whoa!"

"Relax, Stickers." He pulled her upright again with a spin. "I got you."

"Sh-boom, if I could take you up to paradise up above."

"Shall I go easy on ya. I didn't account for the fact that ya may be rusty," he teased, falling into the next movement, swinging around each other.

"You're the one who nearly dropped me, supposed dance master."

"Nah, that was style."

"Sh-boom, just tell me darling I'm the only one that you love."

His radio crackled as he spun her around effortlessly. "All part o' the choreography."

"Life could be a dream sweetheart."

She couldn't help but feel challenged by his previous words, and she matched his little step back of momentum, servo extended with his before swinging each other back around to flip places.

"Hello hello again,"

Jazz was more than delighted by this, his grin matching her own as her spark fluttered so wildly she nearly missed his next spin, but it had her laughing outright, the sound bubbling sharp and quick from her vents.

"Sh-boom and hopin' we'll meet again."

She hadn't even noticed she began to hum along with the little "day dong da ding-dong sha-lang-a-la-lang-a-la~" as they connected two servos as she came around him in a twirl, only to pull one of their arms over their helms in disconnect. It was a rhythm that repeated and repeated, which is what made swing so much fun.

As much as he loved listening to her hums, he couldn't help himself. "So, you do know this song."

Her humming stopped as she defensibly quipped back, "I never said I didn't. I just corrected your knowledge."

"I see," he smiled at her endlessly, unable to look away even as they switched servos during a pivot turn.

"You found yourself a music connoisseur, I'm afraid."

"An' yet, as a music lover myself, one might call me fearless..." Jazz twirled her one last time, settling her close.

Replay tilted her helm as the song wound down in a warm crackle, the last notes trailing as their chassis pressed, and she felt her spark give a relentless tug forward. "Fearless, huh?"

"For you, Stickers?" he said, voice quieter with their servos still linked, "Always." And her smile lingered, soft and unguarded.

Jazz didn't say anything about it. He just stored the sight away, content to let the moment be theirs alone. "So what other vintage song would ya like?"

"Oh, we're still going?"

"My favor didn't clarify when we'd stop."

"Of course."

Notes:

Everyone who doesn't know Rhea is Replay after that insanely awkward and uncomfortable meeting: wow she is so weird

Jazz: NO SHE IS NOT WEIRD. SHE'S A SAINT AND YOU'LL MISS HER WHEN SHE'S GONE

 

Anyway, I love the next chapter cause the twins are like nuh-uh, you're coming with us whether ya like it not.

Some notes for my changes to TFP timeline. I'll skip episodes here and there, and change things as needed. For example, obviously Wheeljack is more like G1 WJ. Smokescreen is already there.... But this is intentional for the reason that Smokescreens character in TFP was actually supposed to be someone else they couldn't get the copyrights for. Hmmm just a thought 😛

Chapter 27: Red Means Go, Wait-

Summary:

"Same reason you're keepin' that big secret about you and Jazz—"

She kept her servos steady, careful with the tubing Ratchet had set in her servos.

She was still learning the difference between med-grade sealants, the smell sharp in her vents, and Ratchet's watchful helm never let her forget how exact every detail needed to be.

"Good," Ratchet muttered finally, leaning back from Prowl's shoulder joint. "You are not entirely hopeless."

It was, she'd come to realize, the medic's closest approximation of a compliment. He wasn't one to tell you "amazing job!" but any kind of compliment was of the highest order. Given that she was far, far behind when it came to Cybertronian physiology, let alone medicine regarding them, but she seemed to be a fast learner!

Prowl sat upright on the med-berth, plating stripped back to expose the scorched seam along his shoulder.

It wasn't major damage, at least Ratchet had said, but it was enough damage that his nanites wouldn't finish the job without some help, which is why he was currently one of the many subjects for a learning experience under the CMO's watchful optic.

First Aid had been nodding along, already familiar with most of what was being covered. Replay, though, had been drinking in every word, optic ridges furrowed in focus to take it all in.

Ratchet handed her the welder for the next pass, only to pause when his comm beeped.

He muttered something foul, mostly to himself, before telling her to hold on. "Back in a klik. Don't proceed with that weld just yet." He wanted to make sure she did it correctly so she didn't gain any bad habits.

First Aid ended up having to slip out too after a moment, heading for the supply shelves with a nod. That left Replay standing awkwardly at the edge of the berth, tools in neat rows on the tray beside her as Prowl sat patient and still. He seemed rather good at that.

His patience was honestly admirable.

Her optics could help but dart down, studying her own servos as she wiped them on a rag.

It was subconscious, finding something to focus on. Anything but the awkwardness her processor began to imagine.

Bothering her, though, was the antsy twitch of her wings, but she shoved that feeling down.

Prowl, however, literally lacked the programming to feel as she did, especially the awkward air. His helm tilted faintly, optics regarding her with the unnerving intensity he always carried. "You are... assisting Ratchet more frequently."

"...Mm. Yeah." Her words came out a bit too soft, so much so that she cleared her vocalizer to try a little louder with the next. "Trying to... learn."

"Admirable." His tone was completely flat, like he was delivering a field report instead of small talk. Their processors were in two very different places.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint tick of cooling metal from his shoulder joint.

Say something, Vox murmured wryly in her helm. Or stand there cleaning your servos for the tenth time. Your call.

Replay pressed her dermas together, summoning courage as she told herself: He knows I'm Rhea. Same mech, same ally. Just... different frame. Different reality. It's just Prowl. Logical and flat Prowl.

She swallowed and tried, "Um. So. The relics."

She mentally cringed at the lack of clarity that conversation starter held.

Prowl stared at her. "...The Iacon relics."

"Yes. Those." She fiddled with the rag in her servos. "Do you... think we'll actually find them all?"

That's what they were looking for, right? She wasn't often in the atrium, especially when it was busy—which happened to be when these missions were set out. But Jazz had told her a lot about what was going on, and from what she gathered, finding these relics was turning out both dangerous and super complicated, given that the locations had to be decrypted.

There was the barest pause, as if he hadn't expected her to continue the subject, but his tone stayed matter-of-fact. "Statistically improbable."

She nodded, unsure about that answer. "Oh." It didn't leave a lot for her to keep the conversation going.

There was another unbearable pause before he added, "Though it is equally improbable that Ratchet would ever describe you as 'not entirely hopeless.' Yet this has occurred. Therefore, improbable does not mean impossible."

Replay blinked at him, replaying the words in her helm once, then twice.

Then the realization hit her. "...Was that... a joke?"

Prowl's intake twitched, just slightly, the faintest suggestion of a smirk that was gone before it settled. "I suppose you may interpret it as such if it assists with morale."

She stared for a beat longer, then let out a startled laugh. Twenty-eight years, and she had almost forgotten how interesting talking to Prowl could be. "That's... not what I expected."

"Few do," Prowl replied, utterly straight-faced.

"Well. If improbable doesn't mean impossible... maybe that applies to more than relics."

He inclined his helm a fraction, acknowledging her words with the weight of something that sounded far more formal than casual. "Indeed."

Meanwhile, her helm turned every so slightly, strangely recognizing the returning thrum of a spark as it drew closer. She had grown used to this, so she didn't even think twice about it.

And she had been right, because it was then that Ratchet stomped back in, muttering about comm etiquette and grabbing the welder again. First Aid had yet to return, but the lesson picked up where it left off, Prowl silent once more.

But Replay's spark hummed just a little easier as she Ratchet walked her through proper welding techniques, her optics flicking up just long enough to meet Prowl's before darting away again.

He leaned down over Replay's shoulder, offering little tips here and there, but she mostly did it without assistance.

"...Like that?" she asked cautiously.

Ratchet gave a small grunt of approval. "Exactly like that." He straightened, stepping back as if to give her space. "Almost don't need me hovering."

Her spark gave a tiny, quiet flutter at that—praise always seemed to hit harder when it came from him.

But as she worked, despite the perfection Ratchet deemed, she felt the faintest buzz in her circuits that ran from her spark, down her arms, and tingled right at the tips of her digits as she welded his injury shut. It was like the buzzing of your foot when it fell asleep, a feeling she no longer got.

She supposed that was why it surprised her, so she shook it out of her servo before returning to work.

Prowl, still seated stiffly on the repair berth, tilted his helm toward her. "Your dexterity is commendable. A steady servo minimizes error."

Replay blinked, processing it like a riddle. "...Thank you?"

"You're welcome," Prowl said with all the seriousness of a report. Then, after a measured pause, "If you continue at this rate, Ratchet may lose his position."

"Lose..." She trailed off, totally lost. "What?"

"A jest."

"...Oh. Right."

Ratchet groaned audibly. "Primus, you two. This is painful to listen to." He waved a servo. "Keep your day jobs, both of you."

Replay ducked her helm quickly, trying not to laugh, while Prowl only inclined his helm in solemn agreement.

But when she finished the welds and he told her to finish up with another anti-rust spray to protect it, Ratchet was stealing her place as he told her, "That's enough for today. You've been under my pedes since morning. I don't want to have to re-repair that hip of yours because of strenuous use. Go."

Replay startled, her servos half-extended toward another tray. "...But I can still—"

"Out," Ratchet barked, but not without a tinge of rough concern. "You've earned a ration at the very least. The medbay will be here tomorrow."

She lifted her servos in surrender as a small smile tugged at her dermas. "Okay, okay. I'm going, Ratch."

Gathering herself, she shuffled toward the door, snagging the untouched cube that had been sitting off to the side of the worktable she had meant to finish that morning.

The seal popped when she lifted the lid on her way out, and she sipped as she walked, feeling thirst that was just slightly different from what reminded her of being human.

The corridors were quieter this late, so her pedesteps echoed softly as she made her way to the only other place she spent time: her room.

Her processor began to wander, not at all ready for recharge, so she began to plan which projects to work on. She should probably finish that one upgrade Wheeljack asked her to do, which seemed like more of a trial run to see her skills–

She turned the corner to her quarter only to noticeably jump at the two tall frames standing there, unprepared and not receiving the usual warning from her little skill with sparks.

The only mech who ever got past it was Jazz, sometimes, but typically it was easy to sneak up on her if she was in la-la-land.

Replay nearly fumbled her cube. "Primus—" Her spark thrummed against her spark chamber.

Sideswipe leaned lazily against the wall with his arms crossed, that sharp and mischievous grin she knew rather well despite her time away. "Y'know, for someone who's supposed to be a spy-in-training, you spook easy."

Sunstreaker lingered just behind him, helm tilted, his smirk the subtler mirror of his twin's.

Replay's optics darted down to her cube as her wings twitched on her back, slowly lowering from their previously raised and defensive position out of instinct.

She sipped again, anything to buy herself a beat and calm her spark. "...What are you doing here? Lurking like creeps in the night?"

"We are not lurking creeps," Sideswipe answered in an offended manner before he switched his persona to faux innocence. "We were waiting. Was starting to think you're avoiding us."

Her grip tightened around the cube, gaze still lowered. "...I've been busy." It was the first thing she could think to say.

Honestly, she meant to say hi to them. She meant to say a lot of things to a lot of the bots. But her hermit-habits occupied her processors more than she cared to admit.

"Busy," he echoed dramatically as he pushed off the wall. "That's what you're going with? I'm hurt. We were practically best friends, babe."

Her spark pinched.

Oh. Right. The twins knew, too. Knew her.

Guilt stirred for not having said much of anything to them since coming back. They hadn't been at introductions, instead on a mission.

"I... didn't mean—" she started, faltering.

Sunstreaker cut in smoothly, optics narrowing. "You spend an awful lot of time in your room. Or in the medbay. It's sad. The Hatchet doesn't count as social interaction."

Replay bristled faintly, defensive. "...I see First Aid. And Jazz."

Sideswipe's grin widened, glinting with opportunity. "Ah, Jazz. Funny you mention him. He's around you a lot, isn't he? I wonder why that is, Sunny?" He smirked at the golden twin.

Sunstreaker didn't look in his direction, his focus remaining on her as she answered, "I wonder."

Replay took another long sip from her cube and regretfully finished it off as she avoided both their optics.

Sunstreaker's helm angled, catching the way she sidestepped the insinuation. He may have bashed helms with this femme back in the other reality, but he recognized when someone was out of character.

Perhaps that was why he redirected the conversation, just maybe. "Anyway. That's not why we're here."

Sideswipe straightened, clapping his servos together. "Right. We're going out."

Her optic widened. "Out?"

"It's bad on the gears to be cooped up all the time."

"You were cleared to transform, right?" Sunstreaker asked her blandly, and she almost wondered if he would groan if she told him the wrong answer...

"Uh, yeah a few days ago."

"Good." Sunstreaker nodded, absentmindedly adding, "Being stuck with no use of your t-cog in this barren and obnoxiously lit human base will make you rust." She had to admit, she hated the fluorescent lighting as much as the next person.

"So you admit I'm right?" Sides quipped, his grin spreading like wildfire as he leaned against his brother

Sunstreaker didn't miss a beat. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day." Then he shrugged him off.

That earned a small smile from her, missing the scene before it, even if they were previously calf-high on her, before it faltered again. "...Wait. Going out where?"

Both twins exchanged a look over her helm. Their smirks went downright wicked, practically buzzing with mischief, and she was honestly debating facing that first conversation with Ironhide if it meant getting out of whatever the hell they're planning.

---

Well.

This was not exactly what she pictured...

The three of them lay stretched out on their fronts across a dusty ridge, the night air carrying the distant roar of engines and tires from below where a freeway sprawled like a river of light, headlights streaming in endless lines. For the most part, considering Jasper was pretty barren, and all the traffic on this freeway was passing through on their way to more interesting places.

Replay lifted her helm, confused optics watching the traffic below. "...Not that I'm complaining, but what the hell are we doing?" This felt strangely out of character for a "night-out" for the twins.

Sideswipe propped his chin on his palms, grinning sidelong at her. "First off, this wasn't my plan."

"That's new," Sunstreaker muttered dryly, brushing grit off his plating with a disgruntled expression.

Sides ignored him. "Look, babe. If you're gonna hang with us, you need a proper disguise. Something not so..." He waved vaguely at her bright, distinctly Cybertronian frame. "... Cybertronian chic."

Replay glanced down at herself, plating catching faint starlight. "What's wrong with my frame?"

"Nothing," Sideswipe said quickly, offering a wink. "It's beautifulllll."

"It's Cybertronian," Sunstreaker cut in bluntly, optics fixed on the freeway. "It screams 'alien robot.' You need an alt. Something that blends, at least according to Prime's rules of 'robots in disguise'."

"At least a car alt-mode since there aren't exactly jets flying around here," his brother offered his two cents.

Replay squinted at the moving headlights below. "I guess that makes sense. I've never... scanned anything before, though."

"You've been here technically longer than us and never scanned anything?"

Her silent glare was enough for Sideswipe to sheepishly turn his helm away to avoid the burning gaze warning him against saying more.

"It's not rocket science," Sunstreaker graciously saved him, gesturing toward the road as he got back on topic.

"It might not be rocket science, but I'm also an aircraft, sooo aerospace engineering isn't exactly up my alley either..." She was saying this just to be annoying now.

Sunstreaker glared at her as his brother snickered. "Find a vehicle you like, line up your scanners–"

Then Sideswipe cut in, "And boom! Instant disguise. Just don't pick something lame."

That didn't answer much, but it was worth a shot.

Replay stared down at the freeway of passing cars, but the problem was that it was mostly family vehicles, semi-trucks, and sedans. Hm.

The golden mech groaned as he shifted uncomfortably from his awkward hovering on the dirt. "Primus, this dirt is working into my seams. If she doesn't pick something fast, I'm leaving," he grumbled.

Replay rested her chin in her palms now, optics narrowing at the blur of passing vehicles. "There's just... a lot of boring cars. How am I supposed to choose?"

"You're being picky," Sides quipped.

Her helm tilted toward him, a spark of teasing in her voice. "You're a Lamborghini. You're as show-offy as they get."

He puffed his chest plating as smug as ever. "High standards."

Sunstreaker gave a long-suffering vent of a sigh beside them. "This was a mistake."

Replay hid her smile, gaze drifting back to the freeway below.

Cars flashed by—sedans, vans, trucks—all plain and pretty forgettable.

Then, just for a moment, something sleek caught her optics.

Her spark gave a quick flutter. That one.

She sat up a little straighter, inwardly trying to figure this scanning thing out, optics narrowing.

How do I even—

But just the instinct of desiring to scan something made her scanners flare online for the first time.

---

The freeway lights thinned as the three of them rolled down a street with their engines purring low.

Human voices rose like a tide in the distance, music thumping from some jury-rigged speaker system. The smell of burning rubber and oil hung thick in the night air as the numerous muscle and sports cars revved around them, some clearly daddy's money and others worked up for racing in their garages.

This was obviously some sort of off-road racing event, and it was also pretty illegal, given that this was a public road.

Not to mention the loads of humans crowded to watch and the many racers told her this was risky as someone supposed to be undercover, but now she knew why they had taken her to get her disguise.

Replay's comm crackled faintly as she pulled in line behind the golden twin as he drove to find a place in line. ::Are we supposed to be here?::

Sideswipe's engine purred with smug ease. ::Supposed to? Eh.::

::No,:: Sunstreaker cut in flatly. His gold Lamborghini alt gleamed under the scattered streetlamps as he likely glared at any human among the crowd that grew too close to touching him. He made a point to keep a wide berth with them. ::But who cares?::

::Exactly,:: Sides pitched in brightly, sliding into place at her rear quarter, his own scarlet plating catching every bit of neon glare. ::That's what makes it fun. You need some fun, femme.::

Replay hesitated but couldn't help but feel her plating shifting with a shiver of energy as a low growl of an engine followed her. The noise was sourced from herself, and it surprised her a bit despite having the form of a brand-new Corvette Stingray, sharp-edged and unmistakably bold. A C8, lacquered in crimson with stickers that stood out on her back bumper.

She rolled up behind Sunstreaker's gold Lamborghini, who finally stopped in line and glanced sideways in her mirrors as Sideswipe pulled up behind her, red against red, each shade daring the other to shine brighter.

She eyed the crowd that surged closer to the guardrails wearily, pointing at the sudden arrival of three supercars.

Replay's comm sparked dryly. :: I'm new to base and all, but even I know the rule of not drawing attention to ourselves. That was also, like, my number one when I was flying solo.::

Sideswipe revved his engine. ::Yeah, yeah. Rules. But hear me out... boring! ::

::She's not wrong. This is reckless.::

::You're still here,:: Sides shot back. Truth was, Sunstreaker typically went along with his brother's ideas.

::I didn't say I wouldn't enjoy it.::

Replay's vents hitched in something close to a laugh. The vibration of it hummed through her engine.

Sideswipe pounced on it instantly. ::Speaking of enjoying... which of us do you think is the better red, miss bumper stickers?::

She gave a sharp rev. ::Seems you answered your own question.::

::Ohh, bold.:: His laugh echoed through comms.. ::You hear that, Sunny? She thinks she can outshine me.::

:: As if it's hard,:: Sun said flatly, though the faint satisfaction in his tone made Replay snicker.

She shifted in her lane, the hum of her tires grounding her.

Around them, other cars began revving, people cheering louder as a girl in cutoff shorts climbed onto the median with a checkered flag.

::Just remember, babe. This night out? Our little secret.::

Her engine growled right back. ::What's the need for secrets?::

::Oh, you know,:: Sides replied lazily. ::Same reason you're keepin' that big secret about you and Jazz—::

Wait, what–

"GO!" The girl's arms slashed the flag down and the crowd erupted.

Replay didn't think twice as her engine thundered with a feral snarl, tires biting hard into the dirt-covered road as she launched forward like fire out of a barrel. Her Corvette frame hugged low to the ground, smooth and deadly fast, and the sound of her acceleration cracked against the desert, becoming nothing but a red streak tearing forward in tandem with the twins.

Her spark pounded as the night became nothing but bright colors, engines, and headlights blurred into streaks of white and gold and crimson.

Replay hugged the curve of the road, her chassis hugging low as she swerved past a pair of souped-up imports that tried to cut her off, leaving tires screeching in her wake.

Sideswipe slid into her flank, wheels kissing dangerously close before he darted ahead half a length, laughing through comms. ::Careful now. You're startin' to look good at this.::

She swerved back at him, a daring nudge that almost clipped his rear fender. ::You started this. Don't cry when I finish it.::

He barked a laugh, his engine snarling in reply—then suddenly, music from the radio inside the red lambo blared to life.

"I'll keep you my dirty little secret... "The All-American Rejects blasted across the way, lyrics bouncing off concrete and dirt. It was a way of poking fun at his previous accusation.

Replay startled at the noise, optics wide in her HUD. ::What—are you serious?::

Sides's smugness radiated through comms. ::As ever.::

Up ahead, Sunstreaker groaned audibly, the golden Lamborghini pulling ahead as if to physically escape the racket. ::Primus, turn that noise off before I ram you.::

::Don't listen to him,:: Sides said cheerfully, and with a flick he opened the line so their comms synced to the beat. The chorus pulsed through her frame, and she couldn't help but laugh.

She swerved left, then right, darting between two cars like liquid fire, the music somehow keeping time with her movements. "Don't tell anyone, or you'll be just another regret... "

Sideswipe chased her taillights, revving hard, every movement half-tease, half-challenge.

When he cut her off, she slipped past, their engines snarling over each other noisily, so much so that they didn't even realize no one was in front of them but Sunstreaker.

He held the front, far more controlled than the other two, but even he couldn't keep his vents from revving harder in the chase as they left the rest of the racers choking behind them.

The advantages of being Cybertonian include being able to hit speeds that weren't possible in a normal human vehicle.

They'd already blasted past the finish line a while ago, tires sparking against the asphalt, but the race wasn't over—not for them. They clipped right onto the freeway ramp as the road ended, and the race with no end kept going between the three of them.

Replay pushed herself harder, hugging curves, swerving past slower cars on the empty Jasper freeway. A few headlights flickered past, but otherwise, it was just them while lost in speed and risk.

Around her, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were relentless, trading positions, laughing, teasing, revving engines in that familiar, competitive chaos. She let herself sink into it, the Cybertronian version of adrenaline sharpening every sense, tunnel vision cutting out everything that wasn't the road and the race.

An open area between the two ends of the road brought them briefly onto the wrong side of the median—a miscalculation from a split-second dodge of another car that the two trailing had to follow while behind the current leader.

Instead of panic, it added another layer of thrill.

She leaned into it, her spark hammering with a type of feeling she began to enjoy. Every swerve, every near-miss, every playful bump of Sideswipe's car against her flank was electric.

She was threading through traffic like she belonged in the chaos, never hesitating, never second-guessing her movements, even while driving on the wrong side of traffic. Around her, when she finally took the lead, the twins pressed close, the three sharing a pulse of recklessness.

Then, just ahead—

The semi appeared like a wall of steel and rumble, headlights like two molten eyes cutting through the night. Beside it, a stubborn sedan blocked her escape, and every alarm seemed to blare in her processor.

The semi's horn blared, a thunderous cry vibrating through her plating.

Her tires squealed against the concrete, prayed they'd slow down behind her, but it felt like the sound traveled in a crawl, every note ringing in crystal clarity.

And just a millisecond before impact, her rim a finger-tip width away from the semi's front, she focused on one single thought that seemed to work out for her every time since she woke up.

REWIND.

The world obeyed.

Cars, trucks, dust, sparks, even the horn of the semi, all seemed to unspool, moving backward in a surreal and slow-motion manner.

The sedan beside her rolled backward, tires retreating. The semi's massive grille seemed to crawl away, horn blaring in reverse. Sparks from the friction of her brakes and panels fell upward, tracing arcs that dissolved into the air. Even the dust she had thrown into the wind mid-roll had retracted, coiling toward the ground in impossible spirals.

She scanned her surroundings for an out, taking in every detail, every opening that had once been invisible in the split-second it would take to crash.

And then, in the still-stretching seconds, she found a path through the chaos from the very lifted truck trailing the ass of the sedan blocking her path, right as the rewind usually fell short.

As predicted, time snapped back.

::WATCH IT!:: she screamed over comms with zero hesitation.

Her back tires veered sharply, the back of her alt swerving one way as if to hurl into the car beside it before bounding in an entirely 180 spin, brakes squealing as she skidded right underneath the lifted truck, the top of her alt scraping the underside.

With her front bumper now facing the correct way of traffic as she passed that empty space where a median usually was, she threw herself into the correct gear and floored the accelerator.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe didn't even think as they mirrored her movements instantly, uncanny reflexes honed by years of racing and war.

And then... silence.

The air was a tense, oh-shit-we-just-almost-died-in-a-head-on-collision silence. Even the rumble of their engines felt wrong, like it was being held hostage by the sheer magnitude of their stupidity.

The silence continued long after they decided maybe it was best to pull off to the nearest exit, and now they were driving the speed limit on a barren dirt road.

Sideswipe's voice cracked first, incredulous about more than just their near-death experience and more so what the fuck Replay just did. ::Did you just... What was... What the–::

::Nobody tells anyone what just happened,:: Sunstreaker muttered, his tone suggesting it was more of a warning whiletinged with his own disbelief. ::We are not going to talk about this ever.::

Replay would've slowly nodded if she could. Instead, she told Sideswipe. ::Turn the music off.:: It was more like a resigned suggestion than a command, like teenagers realizing that, yes, yes, the stereo absolutely has to die immediately. We need to sit in silence.

He idly cut the music. ::Good call. Good call... holy primus, that was way too close.::

Sparks from the scrape still glimmered on her red panels, a glittering reminder of how spectacularly they had all nearly died, or at the very least, would've been crushed and severely injured.

The three of them coasted into the empty desert back toward base, engines idling but spark still racing, each painfully aware that words were unnecessary. Everyone knew what had almost happened. And, well... they could picture exactly how ridiculous and close to fatal it had been. Three Cybertronians hurtling down a freeway, the kind of near-death chaos that would've earned them viral infamy if anyone had a camera.

Primus, she hoped no one had a camera.

Notes:

Replay : it's no one's fault okay! I'm not naming any names here... sideswipe... NOW does anyone have-

Sides: 😮

Sunstreaker: Yeah, yeah I think I do

Sides: No one is gonna acknowledge that-

Sunstreaker and Replay: Shh the adults are talking

 

I'm in a great mood so a day early chapter 😛