When the parents are away, the kids will play

by ArcticFics

Summary:

What were Bumblebee's Team and Steeljaw's Pack doing for the 3 months that their leaders aka the only bots willing to deal with them on a daily basis were gone?

Chapter 1: Welcome to the joys of parenthood again, Strongarm

Notes:

or ~ everybody's favorite cadet experiences leadership PTSD for the umpteenth time ~

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHAT DID YOU DO?”

 

The high-pitched panicked screech from Fixit as he hurriedly rolls into the clearing has every bot and con freezing in their tracks. The ground-bridge controls are nothing more than a sparking, crumpled block of metal and wires. Where there should have been two mechs, the respective leaders of each group, is Sideswipe, lying splayed out on a patch of dirt.

 

“Nonononononononononononono… This is bad. This is really really really really really…”

 

Thunk

 

“Bad!”

 

“No worries, Fixit, it isn’t like we haven’t dealt with this before,” Sideswipe attempts to reassure the hysterical minicon, getting to his pedes and brushing dirt off his frame. “Besides, it’s not like that time Underbite ate part of the ground-bridge.”

 

“I ain’t ever doing that again,” Underbite pipes up from his doggy pile with Grimlock, shuddering at the unpleasant memory.

 

“You ate a ground-bridge?” Fracture asks, looking over from where he and Drift are somewhat locked together by their weapons.

 

“It was the closest thing I could reach at the time that was made of metal!”

 

The Compazoid’s engine rumbles in disdain.

 

“I wouldn’t have done it if I knew what was gonna happen. I did not like all that poppin’ around.”

 

“Neither did we,” Strongarm grumbles as she makes her way over to Fixit and the broken control panel. “How long do you think it will take to repair this and bridge to the Lieutenant?”

 

“And Steeljaw,” Drift adds.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Scrap,” Strongarm curses, the realization that her leader is most likely dealing with the enemy leader alone taking its sweet time to cement itself in her processor. “Fixit, estimate?”

 

“I’m almost done calculating…” Fixit bends over and takes a closer look at some wires. “I’ll have to run a few tests as well, but I should be able to fix it within the flour… sour… hour!”

 

Strongarm beams.

 

“Really? Only an hour?”

 

That was better than she expected. Way better.

 

Then Fixit touches one wire end to the other, they spark, there’s a tiny explosion, and the wires are promptly dropped, ends blackened and smoking.

 

“Heh. Make that two hours, possibly more.”

 

Strongarm groans, hanging her helm and placing her servos on her hips.

 

This is just great.

 

What are they supposed to do now?

 

They can’t focus on repairing the ground-bridge controls and trying to take down Steeljaw’s pack at the same time. Without Steeljaw around to keep them in line, the remaining Decepticons can and will tear each other apart. While some of her team-mates, and Strongarm herself on occasion, wouldn’t mind that too terribly much, the fact is that it’d do more harm than good leaving the cons to themselves.

 

Someone needs to step in and take responsibility.

 

“Alright, cons, listen up!” Strongarm addresses, raising her voice to be heard. “We’re putting a temporary halt to this latest skirmish of ours until we get both Steeljaw and the Lieutenant back. You won’t be going anywhere, we won’t let you, so you can either sit and be patient and not cause any trouble for once in your lives, or you’ll find yourselves promptly shoved into stasis pods.”

 

Strongarm’s declaration is received by silence, stunned, incredulous red and blue optics locked on her.

 

All, except for one.

 

“Thunderhoof, did you hear what I said?” Strongarm demands, walking over to the former crime boss, who hasn’t budged from where he stands off to the side, facing the ground-bridge.

 

Once she is closer, Strongarm notices that Thunderhoof is staring at the spot where Bumblebee and Steeljaw were last seen. She couldn’t begin to guess what’s going on inside his head. He appears tense, shoulders hunched and posture stiff, fists held at his sides, but his EM field is closed off good and tight. Strongarm can’t get a read on him.

 

“Thunderhoof?” Strongarm asks again, more calm, yet more suspicious.

 

Why isn’t he answering her?

 

“Is he glitched or..?” Sideswipe approaches and raps his knuckles against Thunderhoof’s temple. He is immediately knocked on his aft when Thunderhoof suddenly turns around.

 

“I ain’t glitched, ya little punk!” Thunderhoof snaps, glaring down at Sideswipe. “And don’t touch me again if ya wanna keep yer cranium on!”

 

Strongarm kneels beside her team-mate and helps him to his pedes.

 

“Sideswipe, are you alright?” She asks.

 

“Oh, you know, could be better,” Sideswipe snarks, rubbing his scraped faceplate. He rips his arm out of Strongarm’s hold and backs away.

 

Strongarm sighs. She’ll deal with Sideswipe later. In fact, she’d rather put up with literally anything else.

 

“Okay, Thunderhoof, I’ll ask again. Did you listen to what I said?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I did,” Thunderhoof snorts and rolls his optics, not entirely facing Strongarm as he answers her.

 

“Then why didn’t you answer me the first time?”

 

“I was…” Thunderhoof stops himself from saying more. Optics narrowed, he completely looks away from Strongarm.

 

The cadet raises an optical ridge. Thunderhoof is acting weird, and Strongarm feels like she shouldn’t question him. Something about his behavior is telling her that it’s best to leave him alone.

 

“You were what?” Sideswipe continues to pester.

 

“Sideswipe,” Strongarm warns.

 

“It’s probably because…” Quillfire starts to answer; somehow he managed to keep quiet up till now.

 

“Quillfire, ya better shut yer trap before I shut it for ya!” Thunderhoof interrupts with a threat, rounding on the porcupine-like Decepticon.

 

Quillfire acquiesces, though not without a glare thrown Thunderhoof’s way.

 

The display surprises Strongarm a bit. She’s known the anarchist to be aggressive with Autobots, but when it comes to other Decepticons, he ranges from cowardly to cordial, sometimes comical. Content to be among his similarly oppressed brethren. Never once has Strongarm witnessed Quillfire stare at his own comrades with such frustration and displeasure.

 

That’s typically, well, every other Decepticon’s thing, not Quillfire’s.

 

Strongarm notes the behavior for future reference before filing it away and refocusing on more pressing concerns.

 

“Is the fighting over?”

 

When Strongarm thought of more pressing concerns , the humans coming out was not on her bingo card. Suppressing her irritation, she turns on a heel to see Denny and Russel standing nearby, both clad in pajamas, each holding a flashlight.

 

“What are you two doing up?” She asks.

 

“It’s kind of hard to sleep when you have giant robots fighting in your front yard,” Russel quips.

 

“Sorry, it couldn’t be helped.”

 

“No worries. Just comes with the territory. We’re used to it by now,” Denny waves off the apology, acting like it isn’t a big deal. He points his flashlight at Fixit, effectively illuminating all the damage done to the ground-bridge controls. “Yikes, that looks bad.”

 

“I know!” Fixit laments, scavenging debris left and right.

 

“Denny, Russel, I hate to ask, but since you’re awake, do you mind helping Fixit?” Strongarm asks.

 

“Sure!” Denny responds happily.

 

“I don’t think I can fall back asleep anyway,” Russel says, following his dad over to Fixit and the mess that they are going to help fix. He looks around, and a frown soon forms. “Hey, where’s Bee?”

 

“Bumblebee got sent flying through a ground-bridge after someone lobbed me out of his way,” Sideswipe replies, arms crossed, pointedly glaring at Thunderhoof.

 

“The Lieutenant was next to Steeljaw, so he went through the portal as well,” Strongarm adds.

 

“Bumblebee is trapped who knows where with Steeljaw ?!” Denny exclaims, briefly looking up from the repairs at Strongarm, who gives a brisk nod.

 

“But why was the ground-bridge open in the first place?” Russel asks.

 

Everyone turns to look at the culprit.

 

“Hey, I was just trying to get away, alright? Didn’t fancy being cracked open by Thunderhoof and all that,” Clampdown defends.

 

To be fair, Strongarm doesn’t blame the crab-like Decepticon for wanting to escape the clutches of someone who is hellbent on killing him, and with Steeljaw currently elsewhere, there isn’t anyone around to stop Thunderhoof. Well, except for Strongarm herself, but she really hopes things don’t come down to that. She’s nervous enough as is with Bumblebee missing.

 

“Has anyone called to see if they’re okay or find out where they are?”

 

Denny’s question completely knocks the mecha for a loop.

 

“By the Primes,” Strongarm gasps, internally kicking herself. “How did I not think about that earlier?”

 

“I’m a little surprised that’s not the first thing you did,” Sideswipe comments.

 

“Oh, like you’ve done any better.”

 

“I would have! Eventually.”

 

Strongarm just rolls her optics. She doesn’t have time to waste on Sideswipe. She reaches for her audial and activates her comm link.

 

“Liuentenant, this is Strongarm. Please report in.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Lieutenant?”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

The lasting silence is doing nothing to soothe her nerves. Strongarm paces, avoiding looking at the eyes and optics on her.

 

“Strongarm here. Lieutenant, please respond! Where are you? What’s your status? Are you injured? Is Steeljaw with you? What’s his status? Should we be worried? Are you in immediate danger, or any danger at all?”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Strongarm has a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling. Slowly, she drops her servo.

 

“Bumblebee isn’t answering.”

 

She doesn’t have to look to sense the alarmed fields of her team-mates.

 

“He probably just got teleported somewhere with no reception,” Sideswipe says, attempting to play it cool despite his rising anxiety.

 

Strongarm wishes she could believe him. In an act of desperation, clinging to a microfiber of hope, she turns to the Decepticons.

 

“Will one of you try to get in contact with Steeljaw?”

 

The cons, merely observing in curiosity, light up from the surprise request.

 

“Even if we felt like it, and assuming he’s with your Lieutenant, why would we do anything you say?” Fracture questions.

 

The bounty hunter has a point, but Strongarm isn’t going to give in so easily. She musters up some semblance of control and speaks.

 

“You mean aside from what I said earlier? Because we don’t know what’s going on, and if there’s even a small chance that Steeljaw, as untrustworthy as he is, is reachable and still with the Lieutenant, then I’m willing to take it.”

 

The Decepticons don’t seem convinced. However, just as Strongarm is about to speak, add more threats to the list and all, perhaps read them their rights for refusing to cooperate, she sees Quillfire press a claw to his comm link.

 

“Eh, Steeljaw, this is Quillfire speaking. Are you, by chance, alive wherever you are? It’d be nice to know for future developments.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Same as with Strongarm, Steeljaw doesn’t answer.

 

“I’m not getting anything,” Quillfire says.

 

Strongarm sighs. Her spark is pounding. She must ignore the horrible feelings crawling along her spinal strut.

 

“Thanks for trying. Fixit…”

 

“ Oh dear. ”

 

That is not a welcome response.

 

Strongarm looks at where she thinks Fixit is, but the minicon is not at the ground-bridge controls. Denny and Russel point to the Alchemore’s command console, where the minicon has relocated himself. He brought up a map and was already in the process of tracking the missing mechs.

 

“Fixit, what is it?” Strongarm asks, hoping beyond hope that his reaction doesn’t mean what she thinks it entails.

 

“I scanned for Bumblebee’s signature, but I can’t find him.”

 

“Again, he’s probably somewhere with no reception,” Sideswipe repeats himself.

 

Unfortunately, Strongarm doesn’t buy it. She turns to the one mech who can confirm her suspicions.

 

“Clampdown, where were you planning on bridging to?”

 

“I… I don’t know, I just wanted to get out of here!” Clampdown stutters, shifting from leg to leg.

 

“Do you at least remember the coordinates you typed in?”

 

At first, Clampdown doesn’t look too keen on sharing, but one look at the other Decepticons, specifically Thunderhoof, has him spilling his guts. It’s a good thing he has an excellent memory, or they’d all have to wait for the console connected to the ground-bridge to be fixed. Once the coordinates are input into the system, their location is revealed.

 

“The coordinates lead us to the middle of the desert. I see nowhere for their signals to be scrambled or have lost connection,” Fixit informs the crowd.

 

“A reminder, we cannot track Steeljaw’s pack through their chips, so we would have no way of knowing if Steeljaw is there or not,” Drift says.

 

That’s true. Strongarm forgot about that little detail.

 

“So what do we do?” Grimlock asks.

 

“Oh, that’s simple!” Fixit chirps. “I just need to examine one of the Decepticon’s chips, and then I should be able to calibrate our tracking system to locate similar signals! Emphasis on should .”

 

“And give up the biggest advantage we have over yous? I don’t think so!” Thunderhoof snaps, already to continue the fight. The other Decepticons share Thunderhoof’s sentiment, each congregating on the antlered mech, wariness clear, and prepared to move at a moment’s notice.

 

For once, Strongarm wants to avoid fighting. She is well aware that it will not bring either leader back, but she isn’t so naive as to believe that the Decepticons, or even her own team-mates, will just roll over and agree to a ceasefire.

 

Then again, the Decepticons haven’t tried anything since Fixit’s intervention.

 

Thunderhoof accidentally hitting Sideswipe doesn’t count.

 

“Look, I know you don’t like it, but if you don’t help us willingly, we will use force,” Strongarm informs the cons.

 

Again, the Decepticons aren’t convinced to do anything, leading to a tense silence, which ultimately results in one con becoming tired of everyone else’s bull.

 

“Ugh! Fine!” Quillfire drags his pedes as he walks. “Let’s just get this over with. I don’t want to be here anymore than I have to. I’d much rather be in the middle of a good, long defrag cycle.”

 

The anarchist’s decision results in an uproar from his fellow cons, one in particular more vocal than the others.

 

“EYO! YOU AIN’T DOIN’ SCRAP! GET BACK OVER HERE!”

 

“ Make me ,” Quillfire growls through his chittering.

 

“What was that?” Thunderhoof demands.

 

“I said I’ll do it since apparently you’re too much of a coward…”

 

The thunderous stomp shakes the earth underfoot. Strongarm reaches for her holstered weapon, but she doesn’t draw it, not yet. Her curiosity is driving her to wait and see what happens next.

 

“While Steeljaw ain’t around, I’m in charge, and I’ll ignore what ya said if ya get back over here right now,” Thunderhoof says.

 

“Then if you are, indeed, a courageous, albeit temporary leader, shouldn’t you be the one to bear this responsibility instead?” Quillfire questions.

 

Some Decepticons are known for deception. Quillfire is not one of those Decepticons. He isn’t underhanded, he is direct. His current behavior reminds Strongarm of a certain missing Decepticon leader, and that is something she simultaneously does and does not want to read further into.

 

In any case, Quillfire’s talent for getting under other’s plating succeeds in making Thunderhoof move, taking his place at the Alchemore and opening a panel in order to give Fixit access to his systems.

 

“I hate to admit it, but that was impressive,” Strongarm mentions to Quillfire. “I’m wondering, where’d you learn to handle yourself like that?”

 

The porcupine-like Decepticon initially appears surprised by the not at all hostile words before breaking out a smile, quills on his back rising and falling in pleasure.

 

“Keh! It was impressive, wasn’t it? Steeljaw…”

 

That was all Strongarm needed to know; she tunes the rest of the explanation out.

 

Of course Steeljaw influenced Quillfire and taught him how to handle himself around mechs like Thunderhoof.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Which, if Strongarm thinks about it for more than five seconds, is a little surprising, as well as, dare she say, a positive thing.

 

Steeljaw teaching Quillfire how to handle more aggressive, more powerful, more dangerous Decepticons like Thunderhoof?

 

Adding on to the surprise, Quillfire sounds pleased as peach about it all. Not just about learning something new, but learning with Steeljaw. Something had to have happened between the two for any of this to have had a chance of working out as well as it has, and Strongarm for the life of her cannot fathom how that is possible.

 

“Uh, Strongarm?”

 

“What, Fixit?”

 

The cadet wishes she didn’t look up.

 

“I inputted the data from Steeljaw’s chip. I can’t find him, either.”

 

Silence, loud and clear; a contradictory statement, although fitting for the current setting.

 

“Well, if they’re not here, and they’re not there, then where are they?”

 

Strongarm doesn’t process who spoke, just what they asked.

 

It is a question she knows none of them have an answer to.

Notes:

I need ideas for character interactions, and I hope y'all won't mind lending me a hand. You will be properly credited, obviously. I did this once before for "Beyond Our Badges" and it went over well. In the meantime, I'll get some rest and think up what I can!

Chapter 2: Accord

Notes:

~ short but necessary chapter ~

“So we did that for nothin’? Great. We good now?” Thunderhoof grumbles, tearing out the lines Fixit hooked into his system.

 

“No, Thunderhoof, we’re not ‘ good ’,” Strongarm responds testily with a shake of her helm and air quotes. “Aside from all the reasons I should be arresting you and every other con in this scrapyard, your leader is missing! Disappeared out of the blue with the Lieutenant. Don’t you find that strange?”

 

“Does it matter if I do?”

 

“What part of ‘ your leader is missing’ did you not understand?”

 

“I understood yous, loud and clear,” a flippant Thunderhoof dismisses with a flick of his wrist. “I just don’t particularly care that that arrogant piece of scrap is gone.”

 

Based on how he was acting not too long ago, Strongarm doubts that what Thunderhoof just said is the truth.

 

“Uh, hey, Strongarm, quick question,” Sideswipe practically whispers into her audial.

 

“What is it, Sideswipe?” The fembot mutters.

 

“When you said that we should be arresting them…” The red mech points to the Decepticons. “You weren’t, you know, implying that we weren’t going to be arresting them, right?”

 

Strongarm didn’t think Sideswipe ever listened to her that closely, but apparently he does on occasion.

 

The answer should be obvious, but a gut feeling prevents Strongarm from speaking immediately. As much as she wants to put Thunderhoof and the others away so that she and the rest of Team Bee can completely focus on looking for Bumblebee and Steeljaw… 

 

“Strongarm?”

 

Sideswipe’s voice pierces Strongarm’s thoughts, breaking her concentration.

 

“Seriously, don’t tell me you have to actually think about putting the cons away!”

 

“We can hear you, you know!” One of the Decepticons says.

 

“Oh, sorry, almost forgot you guys were here,” Sideswipe rebukes.

 

“Don’t play smart with us, kid!”

 

“And what’re you going to do about it? Kick my skid plate? Yeah, like that’s going to happen!”

 

“Sideswipe…” Drift says in a warning tone, not that the addressed mech is going to listen.

 

“You want to go another round? Be my guest!”

 

“Oh, I’m all for it, you…”

 

“EVERYONE, BE QUIET!” Strongarm shouts, patience lost, glaring at Autobot and Decepticon alike. “I can’t think with all of you talking!”

 

Out of the corner of her optic, she sees Sideswipe open his mouth.

 

“Don’t start with me, Sideswipe! I’m not in the mood! And you’re the worst of them all! You won’t shut up!”

 

Strongarm sighs and massages her temples.

 

“Just… give me a few minutes of peace and quiet.”

 

She turns and starts to walk away, down one of the aisles.

 

“Don’t go anywhere or do anything. I want you all exactly where you are when I get back.”

 

She stops and looks over her shoulder.

 

“Except for you, Fixit, Denny, and Russel. Keep working.”

 

Strongarm doesn’t spend another second there. Without appearing as if she’s rushing, she makes her escape, further into the scrapyard. She passes piles of vintage items, hardly paying them any attention. Once she’s found a spot she believes far enough away from everyone else, she exerts an exaggerated groan mixed with a cry of frustration, untensed circuits practically turning into gelatin.

 

“Why did the Lieutenant have to disappear?”

 

Servos cover her face. She holds herself in her misery for a couple minutes.

 

.

 

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Then, Strongarm slaps her cheeks, optics flashing wide and determined.

 

“Okay, cadet, enough dilly-dallying! Time to pull yourself together and figure out how to proceed!”

 

She paces the empty space with arms crossed, one servo holding her chin, pondering.

 

“Before we can focus on search and rescue efforts, we need to first deal with Steeljaw’s pack. Putting them in stasis is the logical solution. They’re already here, so we just need to incapacitate them. However, that would mean another fight, and we can’t risk something happening to the ground-bridge, not that the cons’ll care.”

 

Strongarm hums as something occurs to her, something she noticed earlier.

 

“Or maybe they do care, more than they’re letting on, Quillfire and Thunderhoof especially. Why, though? Not that their personal feelings are any of my business, but if their new and improved connections to each other are worth anything…”

 

It’s a dirty trick, toying with one’s emotions, but ironically, it’s something Steeljaw taught her, and perhaps playing the Decepticons at their own game is just the thing Strongarm needs in order to get them to cooperate.

 

If that doesn’t work, she can always pull out the community service card; having their sentences reduced should convince the Decepticons, at least a little.

 

Satisfied, Strongarm returns to the others. Surprisingly, they are all exactly where she left them.

 

“Cooled down yet?” Sideswipe questions, a bite to his words. One Strongarm doesn’t appreciate, but is going to let slide, because he is going to be even worse once he hears what her decision is.

 

“I have, and I have also made up my mind. Steeljaw’s pack is going to help us with the investigation.”

 

Protests abound, but Strongarm isn’t finished.

 

“In return, their cooperation will result in reduced sentences, which I highly doubt any of them are dumb enough to turn down.”

 

“Strongarm, you can’t be serious! This is crazy!” Sideswipe exclaims. “There’s no way we’d work with them and vice-versa!”

 

Unfortunately for Sideswipe, Strongarm is adamant in her decision-making.

 

“Don’t think she’s gonna budge, kid,” Fracture says, accepting the fact of the matter extremely quickly.

 

“Too bad, ‘cause the little red punk’s got a point,” Thunderhoof speaks up. Tension rises as he approaches Strongarm, coming to stand right in front of her, towering over her. “What makes you think we’ll help you?”

 

Lips twitch, stuck between keeping a straight face or smirking for the trick they’re about to pull.

 

“So you’re telling me you’re not concerned about Steeljaw at all?”

 

Thunderhoof raises an optical ridge.

 

“Why would I?”

 

Strongarm shrugs.

 

“I don’t know, you tell me. I would’ve thought you’d be happy that Steeljaw mysteriously disappeared, but instead you’re angry. You also snapped at Quillfire when he tried to explain, so it leaves me wondering…”

 

The fembot folds her arms behind her back and tilts her helm, playing innocent.

 

“Is there something going on between you two that you don’t want anyone else to know about?”

 

The gobsmacked look on Thunderhoof’s face is priceless.

 

“I… I…”

 

“Hm?” Strongarm chirps. “Well, is there?”

 

Thunderhoof blinks, then drags a servo down his face, stopping over his mouth. He remains quiet for a couple minutes, gaze averted, yet red optics flicker.

 

He is thinking.

 

Strongarm and company wait patiently, anxiously, for an answer.

 

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.

 

“You promise not to pry into our personal business, and swear to keep your word regardin’ our reduced sentences?” Thunderhoof asks, directly addressing Strongarm, looking to hold her to her word.

 

“I do,” Strongarm nods, resolute. She holds out her servo, and although still hesitant, Thunderhoof takes it in his own.

 

A deal has been struck, and every single soul hopes it wasn’t with the devil.

Chapter 3: Surprise

The first order of business is sending a team to the supplied coordinates to search for Bumblebee and Steeljaw on foot, just in case the scanners happened to be off.

 

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.

 

Okay, technically, that’s the second order of business, since they can’t go anywhere without a working ground-bridge.

 

So, first things first, fix the ground-bridge controls.

 

Meanwhile, Strongarm will choose who is best paired with whom… 

 

“By the way, what are we going to tell the big bots back on Cybertron when one of them decides to up and call and ask for Bumblebee?”

 

A task which instantly falls on the back-burner the millisecond Sideswipe opens his mouth.

 

Strongarm tenses.

 

“. . . Scrap.”

 

“Yeah. So what’s your plan there? Because I don’t know how many bots are going to be okay with all of this,” Sideswipe says, waving an arm out to visually encompass the Decepticons currently in their midst.

 

“I… I’ll worry about that later,” Strongarm says, rattling her plating, shaking her nerves away. “Right now, my main concern is finding the Lieutenant and Steeljaw.”

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“If this comes back to bite us, you have my permission to put the blame on me. I’ll deal with the consequences then. For now, I have more important things to worry about.”

 

Sideswipe’s optics narrow, frustration seeping out, but he doesn’t continue the debate, much to Strongarm’s relief.

 

Now if only she can get Thunderhoof to stop looking at her like she’s a puzzle waiting to be solved.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothin’,” Thunderhoof says, rolling his helm and shoulders, looking away from the fembot. “But for a rule followin’ cadet, yous sure are makin’ some risky decisions.”

 

“I kind of don’t have much of a choice,” Strongarm admits, facing away from Thunderhoof to watch the repair team at work. She starts to panic when she sees Fracture kneeling beside them, but slowly relaxes as she takes in additional factors, like how he seems to be discussing something with Fixit, and that Drift is standing right there.

 

It’s a scene Strongarm didn’t expect, but since it’s happening right in front of her, she can’t say that it’s something she doesn’t approve of.

 

If anything, isn’t this how things should have been after the Great War ended?

 

This is what Bumblebee and Team Prime fought for for millenia, along with millions of other mechs.

 

“However, if we can get something good out of all of this, I’m willing to take just about any risk, regardless of what anyone else says,” Strongarm finishes, a soft smile alighting her face. No way in hell is she going to let all of the Lieutenant’s work be in vain.

 

Sure, it’s going to be difficult, but what part of life isn’t?

 

“Sounds like yer starting to grow up,” Thunderhoof comments, though he doesn’t sound derogatory. He sounds almost pleased.

 

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?” Strongarm asks, looking out of the corner of her optic.

 

“More an observation. Take it however you want.”

 

Personally, Strongarm takes it well, then spends the time it takes to repair the ground-bridge controls questioning her sanity.

 

---

 

Once the repairs are complete and the ground-bridge is up and running, Strongarm sends the combined teams of Grimlock and Underbite, and Drift and Fracture; the former for scent-based tracking and heavy lifting, and the latter for additional aid in tracking, investigating in close quarters, and the bonus job of keeping their team-mates from getting distracted, or more likely, trying to kill each other. While neither Drift nor Fracture protested, it didn’t take a genius to tell both were not pleased about the arrangement. On the other side of the spectrum, Grimlock and Underbite were very open in their displeasure at being paired together. It took some convincing, and a threat or two from Thunderhoof, but they eventually conceded.

 

A short time later, the four mechs step out into a desert, nothing but sand and rock for as far as the eye can see.

 

“It would be best if we slit up and search in different directions,” Drift says. He locks onto Fracture and Underbite, gaze hardening. “Don’t wander out of sight. Our acting leaders may expect us to work together, but that doesn’t mean we must trust each other, and I’d rather not let either of you out of my sight.”

 

“Yeesh, we get it, Drift. No need to get your wires in a bunch,” Fracture dismisses with a wave of his talons. He pops his minicons off his shoulders, Divebomb and Airazor transforming and landing at his feet. “Alright, boys, you know the drill. Let’s get hunting.”

 

The little purple menaces are all too eager to work after hearing those words.

 

Drift buries his unease and releases his own minicons.

 

“Students, are you aware of our current objective?” Drift asks, hoping the twins were listening despite lying dormant on his arms all this time.

 

“Yes, Master Drift!” They simultaneously respond with bowed heads.

 

Drift nods, then turns to their other party member. Grimlock is staring past them, normally friendly blue optics narrowed to aggressive slits. Drift doesn’t need to look to know what or who has directed their ire.

 

“Grimlock, instead of spending your time and energy glaring at Underbite, perhaps turn that focus onto a task more prudent.”

 

Optics blink.

 

A crinkled snout loosens.

 

“Prudent is another word for important, right?” Grimlock asks.

 

“Yes, Grimlock, it is,” Drift replies, smiling softly, reaching out and petting Grimlock’s neck. The Dinobot leans into the calm warmth, maw curling into a content grin.

 

The moment lasts for only a few seconds, as Drift doesn’t want the Decepticons, least of all Fracture, to see this side of him. To see how close he and Grimlock are.

 

“Alright, that is enough of that,” Drift clears his throat and pulls away from Grimlock. His spark twinges when he hears his teamie whine at the loss of contact. “We must return to work.”

 

“But we can continue later when nobody else is around, right?” Grimlock inquires pleadingly.

 

Drift sighs, but he doesn’t prevent the corners of his mouth from twitching up.

 

“I would not be opposed to that.”

 

---

 

Wind buffets the search party with loose sediment, leaving minute scratches and dents in their armor. It’s irritating. What’s worse, if there were any tracks to follow, they’re impossible to spot.

 

Grumble

Gurgle

Stomach noises

 

Underbite groans and pats his belly.

 

“I know yer hungry, but I can’t do anythin’ ‘bout it right now. Ya gonna have ta wait.”

 

He really should’ve packed snacks, but how was he supposed to know this was going to happen?

 

It isn’t that he wanted to be back at base with the other Decepticons; he just misses his horde of metal, the junk and extra stuff Steeljaw always makes sure to have around specifically for him.

 

Steeljaw has gotten better with tending to his pack’s personal needs, which is why Underbite isn’t as against this “working with Autobots” thing as others would think.

 

And it isn’t that Underbite thinks Thunderhoof is a bad leader or a better one than Steeljaw or any of that. Simply put, he likes that there’s someone else like him around. Both he and Steeljaw are pretty canid-like, and sometimes find moments to, as silly as it sounds, play.

 

When no one else is around, of course.

 

It’s relaxing, rejuvenating, and it builds trust and understanding between them.

 

Underbite has absolutely no idea what changed, but he’s glad Steeljaw was growing for them.

 

Distracted as he is, Underbite doesn’t process where he is about to step. His empty tanks almost purge what isn’t there when he puts his paw down and the ground gives.

 

“Oh scrap!”

 

Underbite moves the quickest he’s ever moved and speedwalks backwards. It takes a few minutes for his spark to settle down.

 

“Whoo, that was close.”

 

Grumble

Gurgle

 

“Eh, guess it’s a good thing I didn’t fill ya up yet.”

 

Underbite looks away from his stomach to where he almost fell. Hesitant yet curious, he pads closer, careful where he steps this time. He stops just before the edge and looks over as best he can. A sheer drop is what greets him.

 

“Aw man, if they were here…”

 

A pause, followed by a chuckle.

 

“Heh. Although, it’d be stupid of Steeljaw not to notice somethin’ like this.”

 

Underbite hums, a frown forming.

 

“But I guess he ain’t always smart. He can be pretty dumb sometimes.”

 

The Chompazoid steps away from the ravine and calls Fracture, who proceeds to call Drift over an old commline, and the message eventually reaches Grimlock.

 

Soon, everyone is gathered and peering into the abyss.

 

“That is a long way down,” Fracture whistles.

 

“Quite, especially since I cannot see the bottom,” Drift says.

 

“I don’t think any of us can.”

 

“Do you think they’re down there?” Grimlock asks, nerves a poorly-contained mess.

 

Underbite is uncertain what sharing his rival’s sentiments in this particular situation says about him, and he’d rather not think on it too hard.

 

“There’s only one way to find out,” Drift says. “Someone needs to go down there.”

 

For a moment, nobody responds.

 

“Well, I ain’t goin’ down there,” Underbite says.

 

“I didn’t have you or Grimlock in mind. It would mean certain death if either of you attempted to,” Drift replies.

 

That is a relief, because Underbite has no idea how they would have gotten him or Grimlock down safely in the first place.

 

Suddenly, Airazor and Divebomb are recalled.

 

“Fracture, what are you doing?” Drift asks.

 

“Don’t worry, Drift. Unlike your minicons, mine can fly,” Fracture says, just before ejecting Airazor and Divebomb. The two missiles disappear within seconds.

 

“Being able to stay airborne is not the same as flying,” Drift argues, stepping protectively in front of Slipstream and Jetstorm; whether it was intentional or not is up for debate.

 

“There’s no need for you to get so worked up over my minicons. They’ll be fine. I’ve put them through worse than sending them down some random hole.”

 

“How those two are still alive with you as their ‘master’ is beyond my comprehension.”

 

Fracture’s smirk falls.

 

“At least I don’t baby my minicons!”

 

Underbite knows for certain that that is a flat-out lie, but he isn’t going to throw Fracture under the bus in front of the Autobots.

 

“Master Drift does not baby us!” Jetstorm snaps. It takes one look from Drift to send the minicon hiding behind Grimlock. “Apologies, Master Drift.”

 

The orange and black deployment carrier just sighs and shakes his helm.

 

It’d be funny if Underbite’s tanks weren’t roiling in nausea from hunger and worry.

 

The sound of missiles approaching catches the waiting mechs’ attention. Airazor and Divebomb crest the top of the ravine, transform midair, and incur a bit of a rough landing.

 

“So, you two find any bodies down there?” Fracture asks, not waiting for his minicons to catch their breaths.

 

“No, we didn’t,” Divebomb huffs.

 

Well, that’s good. A weight off everyone’s shoulders.

 

“But we found something else!” Airazor reports, throwing up his tiny arms.

 

“Oh yeah? What’d ya find?” Fracture asks.

 

Airazor and Divebomb share a look, small mouths spread in wide, toothy grins.

 

“A Cybertronian escape pod.”

 

That… isn’t what any of them were expecting.

Chapter 4: Teamwork

{I’m sorry, you found a what?}

 

“Fracture’s minicons said they found a Cybertronian escape pod,” Drift repeats, eyeing his rival’s little ones from his perch on a rock pile, the only spot within a hundred meter radius of the ravine where he could get a good enough signal to make a call.

 

{Nothing else?}

 

Drift sighs. He knows what Strongarm is looking for.

 

“No signs of either Lieutenant Bumblebee or Steeljaw, I’m afraid, but at least we are certain they didn’t fall to their deaths.”

 

{That’s true…}

 

Drift frowns at Strongarm’s tone of voice. She sounds like she’s on the verge of crying.

 

{But if they’re not there, or here, or anywhere, then…}

 

“Calm yourself, Strongarm. Panicking will not lead to anything productive.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

{You’re right. I’m sorry.}

 

“I understand your concern, but until we have answers, we need you to be calm and collected, to be able to think clearly and make sound decisions.”

 

{I know, I know. Thank you, for the reminder, really.}

 

Strongarm takes a moment to collect herself.

 

{Alright. Anything else you can tell me about this stasis pod?}

 

“Escape pod.”

 

{Right, sorry, that’s what I meant.}

 

“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you more without getting a closer look, and that is not happening without some assistance.”

 

{I’m certain Denny has a towline somewhere around here. We’ll meet you there once we find it. Until then, stay put.}

 

“Affirmative.”

 

---

 

Around fifteen minutes pass before a bridge portal materializes. Strongarm and Thunderhoof exit, both carrying a roll of towline each over their shoulders.

 

“Alright, Denny said these should be long enough and safely hold a bot,” Strongarm says.

 

“‘Should’?” Drift repeats, raising an optical ridge, to which Strongarm just shrugs. The fembot’s response isn’t reassuring, nor is it surprising.

 

“So, which two’s goin’ down?” Thunderhoof asks, as if he had to.

 

Everyone figured it out before then that Drift and Fracture are the only plausible options.

 

Strongarm and Thunderhoof tie one end of their cables around their respective mechs. They keep a firm hold of the lines as Drift and Fracture descend into the depths, sparks left in their servos.

 

Drift is wholly concentrated on his footing, strategically mapping out the best route down. Slow and steady. He doesn’t want to make a mistake, one that could cost him and his students, and possibly Strongarm as well. Out of curiosity, he reaches out with his EM field, and bumps up against one closed and focused. It’s a quick check, only lasting a second, but it tells Drift, without him risking a peek, that Fracture is being just as careful as he is.

 

Step here, step there, digits searching for handholds.

 

Drift gasps, shocked, as he touches flat earth, solid ground. He must be at the bottom of the ravine.

 

“What, is the Earth opening up to swallow you whole?”

 

Drift looks up to send a glare Fracture’s way. The bounty hunter is still attached to the wall, and smirking at his rival.

 

“Your humor is unwarranted, Fracture,” Drift rebukes. He pulls his line once to let Strongarm and the others know that he has reached the bottom.

 

“Better than having a pipe constantly shoved up my exhaust pipe like you, Drift,” Fracture counters, jumping what little distance is left. He, too, pulls his line once for his comrades.

 

“. . . Let us retrieve what we came for and leave before someone says something they will regret,” Drift replies after a moment’s thought. Fracture is trying to taunt him, to get a rise out of him, but he won’t give him the satisfaction.

 

They have a job to do, and trading blows with their blades is nowhere on that list.

 

“Same old Drift, you never change,” Fracture laments, though he doesn’t sound sorrowful in the slightest. He ejects Airazor and Divebomb before Drift can form a rebuttal. “Okay, shortstacks, where’s that pod you mentioned?”

 

“Right this way, boss!” Divebomb rasps, whereas Airazor scuttles past everyone to the right.

 

It isn’t a long trek by any stretch of the means, approximately five hundred and thirty meters, which comes as a surprise to Drift when he bumps into the thing in the near pitch black darkness. Why he didn’t turn on his high beams until after locating the pod is anyone’s guess. With the lights now on, the retrieval team has a better look at the pod.

 

“It does appear to be what your minicons say it is,” Drift quietly admits, inspecting the pod from the outside, running his servos along its frame.

 

“Of course it is! Why wouldn’t it be?” Fracture questions, jumping on top of the pod.

 

“Mmm… For someone who says they don’t baby their minicons, you are certainly being rather defensive of them.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Drift allows himself a brief smirk. He supposes old habits die hard. Getting under Fracture’s plating, unintentionally or on purpose, is something Drift doubts he’ll cease anytime soon.

 

“Hey, boss, I don’t see a Decepticon or Autobot mark on this thing,” Divebomb says.

 

The observation catches Drift’s attention. He scans his side of the pod again. True to the minicon’s word, there is no faction symbol to be seen on the hull.

 

Perhaps there is a clue inside to whom this belongs to?

 

“Isn’t that unusual?” Airazor inquires, sounding a little nervous.

 

“Not entirely. Some ships, typically ones operated by spies, bounty hunters, and the like made themselves and their equipment unidentifiable through affiliation by stripping themselves of brands and stuff. It made their jobs of working both sides easier,” Fracture explains.

 

As a former bounty hunter himself, Drift understands what his rival is talking about. On multiple occasions, he’s had to go badgeless. It had its risks, but it almost always guaranteed him a way in with either faction.

 

Drift shakes his helm. He’d rather not think about those times. The past should stay in the past. Unfortunately, being anywhere near Fracture makes that train of thought impossible to ignore.

 

“Still, it’s strange,” Fracture adds. Drift expects him to say more, but he doesn’t.

 

He just stops talking.

 

“What’s strange?” Drift verbally pushes as he, too, jumps on top of the pod, crouching across from Fracture.

 

“I don’t know. It’s just…” Fracture flicks his wrist, mouth curled into a snarl. “Strange.”

 

Drift hums. His rival must be stumped for a good reason if he can’t think of anything else to say.

 

“These are not ideal conditions for study. Let’s wait until after we’re out of here before drawing more conclusions,” Drift proposes. To his slight surprise, Fracture doesn’t fight him on his decision, or mock him for it.

 

Oh yes, his rival is royally stumped.

 

---

 

Even with four mechs pulling, it was a struggle to get the retrieval team and their load out of the ravine.

 

For one, Drift and Fracture are in a precarious position, supporting the escape pod between them while they half climb/half are being lifted up. All they can do is scale the best they can with only three available limbs, and put trust in their team-mates.

 

Nobody is willing to break that trust. At least, not Strongarm and Grimlock, but apparently, neither is Thunderhoof or Underbite.

 

Strongarm keeps glancing at the Decepticons. Despite their agreement, a part of her refuses to believe that Thunderhoof will stick to his word. Yet, she also wants to believe with all her spark that, for once, she doesn’t have to keep a look out for them, that she can have a little faith in them. That they won’t cause trouble the second she turns her back.

 

“C’mon, Underbite, use those muscles yer always so damn proud of!” Thunderhoof grunts.

 

“I’m tryin’,” Underbite whimpers.

 

Strongarm looks over at the Decepticons once more, this time focusing on the sixteen tons of Chompazoid, who is visibly wincing every step he takes.

 

Is he injured?

 

When did he get hurt?

 

How did Strongarm not notice before now?

 

“What’re you starin’ at, Autobot?” Underbite growls.

 

“Are you alright?” Strongarm asks, genuinely concerned. “You don’t look so good.”

 

Understandably, Underbite is taken aback by Strongarm’s words and tone.

 

“He’s hungry,” Grimlock answers in place of the befuddled Chompazoid.

 

“Of course he’s hungry!” Thunderhoof groans.

 

“Hey, I can’t help it! Not my fault I have a higher metabolism than all of ya,” Underbite argues, a sudden spark of strength spurring him on.

 

Once Drift, Fracture, and the pod are safely out of the ravine, Underbite collapses in a puff of dust with a grand vent.

 

“Can we go home now?”

 

“That’s gonna be a little difficult if yous can barely walk,” Thunderhoof informs as he rolls up their towline.

 

“. . . Do ya have a snack on ya?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Not even any Energon?”

 

“I have that, but it’s for me.”

 

“But you don’t need it right now!”

 

“Still not giving it to you.”

 

Underbite growls and grumbles, but he doesn’t continue arguing. He settles down and conserves what little energy he has left.

 

Strongarm feels kind of bad for Underbite, but there isn’t anything she can do about him right now. If he has enough energy to talk, then he must have enough to walk, she attempts to reason with herself. She turns away from those two to where Drift and Fracture are leaning against the escape pod, Grimlock standing guard near the former.

 

“You two good? Find anything else while you were down there?” Strongarm asks.

 

“We are fine, and no, we did not see anything else,” Drift answers, swiftly standing straight. “However, so far, this escape pod seems unmarked.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“We don’t have a clue who was in here except that they’re most likely Cybertronian,” Fracture explains, stretching tense joints and sore cabling.

 

“Ah.”

 

Strongarm gives the pod a cursory scan. It doesn’t look any different than the ones she’s seen, but who knows what kind of secrets it holds.

Chapter 5: Enigma

Notes:

FROM THE PITS OF HELL THAT ARE WRITER'S BLOCK AND REAL LIFE STUFF, I HAVE RISEN AND THUS BRING YOU THIS CHAPTER THAT IS BASICALLY ONE WHOLE MONTH OVERDUE! I apologize. I hope you enjoy, like, the fourth or so rewrite of this chapter. *throws it at you and runs away*

Anyone would think it’s easy for thirty-foot tall alien robots to carry a single average-sized escape pod from point A, through a portal, to point B. Under normal circumstances, that would be the case. These are not normal circumstances, and not because of what one would think. It isn’t because the robots are enemies, temporarily playing “nice” until their respective leaders are found or return on their own. No, it isn’t something that obvious. Rather, it is because one of the robots is so hungry, and depleted of energy, that he cannot move by himself.

 

It takes over half an hour for the group to relocate both the escape pod and a lethargic Underbite to the scrapyard.

 

At least the scrapyard survived their departure.

 

“There you are!” Sideswipe says, pushing himself away from the command center. “What was taking you guys so long?”

 

“Hunger pains,” Strongarm gives in way of an explanation. She walks past Sideswipe, heading straight for their Energon storage.

 

If she was cruel or sparkless, she would leave the Decepticons to lug Underbite all the way back to wherever they holed up, but she isn’t either of those things.

 

Besides, a hungry Chompazoid is probably way worse than anything Sideswipe could hurl her way.

 

She grabs a plus-sized cube and brings it back to the ground-bridge.

 

“Whoa, wait, Strongarm, what are you doing?” Sideswipe asks.

 

“Helping,” Strongarm replies simply, stopping in front of Underbite and placing the cube in front of him. He looks between the offering and her, uncertain, but Strongarm sees the desire in his optics – impossible not to. “It’s okay. It isn’t spiked or anything, I promise. I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

 

Still uncertain, Underbite looks to Thunderhoof. Strongarm keeps her gaze on the Chompazoid, and therefore doesn’t see what Thunderhoof looks like, but whatever. Very soon, Underbite is demolishing the Energon. With his energy restored, he is once again standing on his own.

 

“Err… Thanks, I guess,” Underbite grumbles, not looking Strongarm in the eye, not that she was expecting him to.

 

Honestly, Strongarm wasn’t expecting a “thank you” at all, so Underbite’s concession is a pleasant surprise.

 

“You’re welcome,” she says, standing up as well.

 

Now that Underbite is feeling better, it is time to move onto the main event.

 

“Anything to report?” Strongarm inquires as she approaches Fixit, who is circling the escape pod, analyzing it from every angle. She hears the Decepticons following her, and has to force her battle protocols inactive.

 

“Not much, I’m afraid. While this appears to be a typical escape pod, scans show that it isn’t congruent with those of either Autobot or Decepticon make,” Fixit explains. “Well, that’s based on the scans that are actually complete.”

 

Strongarm tilts her helm slightly.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Fixit stops and blinks.

 

“That not all of the scans are complete?”

 

“Weren’t you listening, Strongarm?” Sideswipe questions with his arms crossed.

 

“I was, I am! I’m just…” Strongarm sighs and pinches her brow. “Why aren’t all the scans complete, Fixit?”

 

“I don’t know,” Fixit shrugs. “It could be a snug… rug… bug! But I highly doubt there’s anything wrong with my equipment.”

 

The orange minicon taps his chin and hums.

 

“It might have something to do with the pod itself, what it’s made of, where it came from. Look here.”

 

Small pincers spread across the hull. Everyone observes quietly for a minute.

 

“Fixit, I’m not seeing anything,” Strongarm says.

 

“Exactly!” Fixit chirps, turning around to face the crowd. “It was found at the bottom of a ravine, most likely after it crash-landed on Earth, but notice how it doesn’t show any signs of that. No burn marks, no crumpled metal, dents or scrapes. Not a single bolt or screw out of place, and even the glass of the viewports is untouched, save for the dirt it accumulated over however long it was down there.”

 

“That’s impossible!” Sideswipe scoffs. “. . . Right?”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Strongarm notices Drift and Fracture share a look.

 

“Not if one has access to the correct materials,” Drift says.

 

“Of course getting your hands on those materials is way easier said than done. Believe me, I’ve tried,” Fracture adds, kneeling beside the pod, running his talons across its unscathed surface. “Whoever this belonged to was one lucky mech. Must have had quite the connections, assuming they didn’t build it themselves.”

 

“Now you’ve got me curious,” Thunderhoof admits, leaning forward.

 

“Do ya think we can get inside?” Clampdown asks.

 

“There doesn’t seem to be a lock anywhere,” Quillfire observes.

 

“There aren’t any obvious signs of entry, but my scans do show an unusual part in the manufacturing that could possibly be some form of hidden lock,” Fixit says, pointing to a square on his scanner, indicating that something is, in fact, right there beside the door, just that none of them can see it.

 

“A concealed keypad?” Thunderhoof mumbles.

 

“An inconspicuous state for a necessary component,” Drift says, frown deepening. “Does anyone else find this, as Fracture pointed out earlier, strange?”

 

Quiet words of agreement are exchanged.

 

“Why would someone hide the keypad? Don’t you need that to get inside?” Sideswipe asks out loud.

 

“It definitely would be an inconvenience to a random bot who didn’t know where to look…” Fixit looks between Drift and Fracture. “But if I were to hypothesize, and include what you two know, would it not stand to reason that this was most likely a custom job, and therefore whoever used this pod was well aware of the hidden lock?”

 

“That is an understandable conclusion to come to, yes,” Drift nods.

 

“Great, now I really want to meet this mech,” Fracture huffs, standing back to full height.

 

“Yer not the only one,” Thunderhoof agrees, grinning.

 

Strongarm hopes she doesn’t have to worry about those two in the future.

 

“So, do you think you can access it?” Strongarm asks.

 

“I could try, but I believe this would be more suited to someone who…” Fixit is suddenly interrupted by an incoming call from the command center. “Oh, excuse me! Let me go get that!”

 

As the orange minicon makes his way up the ramp and over to his console, Strongarm feels a pit slowly form in her tanks. Any number of individuals could be calling them, and they are all Autobots. Not a good outcome, taking into account the present company.

 

Strongarm can sense that said company is also feeling anxious, understandably so.

 

Fixit answers the call.

 

“You have reached the Alchemor here on Earth! Fixit speaking!”

 

Please don’t be Ultra Magnus or Prowl. Please don’t be Ultra Magnus or Prowl!

 

“Heya, Fixit! It’s Jazz callin’.”

 

At the cheerfully familiar voice, Strongarm visibly relaxes significantly.

 

Oh thank the Primes!

 

“Y’all are probably busy over there, but I gotta go over some things with Bee. Mind if I drop by?”

 

Strongarm flinches.

 

Oh scrud.

 

Out of curiosity, she looks around, and everyone looks just as uncomfortable as she feels.

 

“Hello? Did I lose the connection?”

 

“No, no, we’re still here! We’re just, uh…” Fixit looks at Strongarm with a pleading expression.

 

What am I supposed to do? What do I tell him? Come on, think!

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Uh…” Fixit continues to trail.

 

“What do we do?” Grimlock asks.

 

“Strongarm, you’re going to need to make a decision and you might want to make it quick,” Sideswipe whispers into the fembot’s audial.

 

Buzzing.

 

A fuzzy, staticky sensation in Strongarm’s processor.

 

Shadows dance at the edges of her vision.

 

What am I going to do? What am I supposed to do? What is the right decision? I can’t… I can’t… 

 

A heavy servo lands on her shoulder.

 

“Don’t panic.”

 

The accent surprises Strongarm. She looks up and into shockingly patient and understanding optics.

 

“If you ain’t confident, you ain’t gonna make a good decision,” Thunderhoof informs.

 

Strongarm’s optics dilate, mouth hanging slightly agape.

 

A Decepticon, a former mob boss at that, is giving her leadership advice?

 

What has my life come to?

 

The thing is, the point that Strongarm can’t dispute is that Thunderhoof’s advice is actually good advice. She takes a moment to center herself, settling her EM field, calming her spark. When she feels better, she nods her thanks. Thunderhoof’s expression doesn’t change, but his optics gleam positively. He releases her and steps back.

 

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on, ‘cause something is definitely up.”

 

“I can explain,” Strongarm speaks up, walking right over to the communications terminal.

 

“Strongarm, that you?”

 

“Yes, Jazz. Now, I know this seems a little suspicious…”

 

“Suspicious is an understatement, but I’m willing to hear y’all out. I know you’re good bots, so whatever’s going on, I’m sure you have your reasons.”

 

If there’s one thing Strongarm could count on Jazz for, it’s for him to have an open mind.

 

“Yes, we have our reasons.”

 

“Anything I should know immediately?”

 

An idea pops into Strongarm’s processor.

 

“Yes, actually, but I recommend we talk face-to-face. You did mention that you needed to come here anyway.”

 

“Ah, yeah, that works.”

 

A pause.

 

“I’m assuming this is an off the record matter?”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

---

 

Barely out of the space-bridge and Jazz immediately clocks the Decepticons. Thankfully, there are no signs that a fight is about to break out. Yet. One might get started if one, some, or all of the cons make a run for it. Considering Jazz’s reputation, definitely not a smart move. Absolutely pointless.

 

“So glad I came alone,” are Jazz’s first words, spoken somewhat in relief. “If it were any other mech, pretty sure a firefight would’ve started by now.”

 

“Couldn’t agree more,” Strongarm says, trying very hard not to fidget, then proceeds to explain everything she can to Jazz.

 

It takes a while, but at least the white and black spy doesn’t look confused by the end. Although, his gaze occasionally flicked towards the Decepticons. While his behavior wasn’t unexpected, it isn’t helping much with the tenuous situation.

 

When the mystery of the escape pod is brought up, Jazz is instantly interested.

 

“Really? Hm. Let me take a look at it. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

 

Accompanied by Fixit, Jazz is shown to the escape pod and is shown the idiosyncrasies in its construction and function. Mainly, the hidden lock.

 

“Ah, now I see what you mean. That is strange.”

 

Jazz toys with the plate hiding the keypad. It unlocks and pops open with a quiet click. The keypad itself doesn’t look too advanced; Strongarm swears she’s seen human security systems more complex than this. The revelation unsettles her, but it doesn’t seem to bother anyone else, let alone Jazz. He opens a port in his wrist and pulls out a connector.

 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Strongarm voices, unease clear.

 

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Jazz replies. “Seems simple enough.”

 

“My point exactly.”

 

“Strongarm, this is Jazz we’re talking about here,” Sideswipe stresses. “If anyone knows his way around a lock, besides myself, it’s him.”

 

“I know, but…”

 

*BZZZT!*

 

Jazz is sent stumbling back, frame twitching and sparking. He trips over his own pedes and collapses on the ground.

 

The other mecha, Autobot and Decepticon alike, are stunned speechless.

 

Save for the panel sliding back into place over the keypad, all is quiet.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Please don’t tell me we just killed Jazz,” Sideswipe eventually says.

 

“No, he’s still functional,” Fixit answers after checking the unconscious bot’s vitals.

 

Which is a great relief, but it leaves them all with more questions than before.

 

“From now on, no one, and I mean no one, is allowed to try and access that thing,” Strongarm declares, pointing at the escape pod, sitting perfectly where Grimlock placed it.

 

In response, everyone gives it a wide berth.

Notes:

will edit at a later date but right now I am so done with this chapter you have no idea

Chapter 6: Chaotic Good

Systems are abuzz.

 

Why does his head hurt so much?

 

Code like nothing he’s ever seen before, in a language he doesn’t recognize, scrolls by in a blur of indecipherable patterns.

 

He tries to clear them.

 

*ERROR*

 

He tries again

 

*ERROR*

 

Confused, he tries something else.

 

*ERROR*

 

Over and over again, one thing after another, Jazz tries every trick in the book, plus a few things he’s picked up, but nothing works. The code won’t go away. It is stuck.

 

How did whatever this is get into him in the first place?

 

He attempts to think.

 

Thoughts are glitched, nothing but garbled sound and static.

 

If Jazz didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s a good thing this has happened to him; nobody else could survive the interference with their systems.

 

It is impressive, dangerously so.

 

In a twisted sense of giddiness and anticipation, Jazz can’t wait to wake up and start hunting down the culprit, or culprits, responsible for nearly sending him into a coma.

 

Nevertheless, despite his skill and experience, it takes all Jazz has to stabilize the influx of foreign code, diverting it, holding it back long enough in order to make ample space for it.

 

Exhausted, he collapses within himself, succumbing to unconsciousness once again.

 

When he wakes up, everything seems to be in order. No static, no headache; everything is running smoothly. He checks that the foreign code is safely locked away before activating his outer sensors.

 

No surprises, Jazz immediately feels himself lying on a medical slab, hard, flat, and slightly warm. Sounds of nature filter clearly through his audio receptors, calming nerves that he didn’t realize were tensed.

 

He also heard the unmistakable beeping of a spark monitor but preferred to ignore it.

 

Jazz opens his optics. Above him is not the sky, but a cover of some sort. With a little effort, he pushes himself up, careful of the cords attached to his frame. Team Bee’s med-bay isn’t much of a med-bay, but Jazz already knew that. Still, it’s a bit of a surprise to find himself there and not on the ground. He half expected to be left where he fell.

 

What’s more of a surprise is that no one else is around.

 

First Jazz disconnects the cables, then quickly silences the medical equipment before it alerts everyone within the scrapyard of his status. He’d like to be able to take stock of the current situation before being cornered by concerned Autobots. After all, their focus should be on the Decepticons in their midst, the ones they decided to ally themselves with until Bumblebee and Steeljaw return.

 

What a fascinating conundrum. Jazz should report this to High Command, as Strongarm should have.

 

Is Jazz letting himself be influenced by the cadet’s decision?

 

Of course not. Besides, he’s in a position and has the means to get out of trouble, Strongarm doesn’t.

 

However, for the time being, Jazz will keep all of this from Cybertron. He’d like to have some fun before the higher-ups get involved.

 

Things will most likely not turn as violent so quickly if Jazz continues to keep his mouth shut and not tell on Strongarm or the Decepticons.

 

Until then, Jazz is going to do what he does best.

 

Softly, stealthily, he makes his way out of med-bay and rounds the corner. He stops behind a stack of old signs, once bright, bold colors dulled by dirt and rust, oversized lightbulbs broken, waiting to be replaced. Beyond, Strongarm is in the clearing in front of the Alchemor, listening to Fixit explain something. Probably something important, but Jazz isn’t paying attention.

 

Instead, his focus has been commandeered by the purple figure sitting, leaning against the crashed ship’s hull, arms crossed behind his head, both legs half splayed, half bent.

 

Fracture, Jazz’s processor supplies. He looks quite comfy, but to the trained eye, to someone like Jazz, it is all too easy to notice the tics, the inconsistencies. Joints lock, plating contracts, holding tightly to protoform; if he needs to move, he will move, in a flash. A survival instinct.

 

Fracture’s optics are narrowed, as always. His EM field is held close, but Jazz can sense the anticipation. He is waiting for something to happen.

 

Well, Jazz may as well reveal himself here and now, before Fracture senses him and startles, which could unintentionally provoke Strongarm into attacking either one of them.

 

“Mornin’, bots!” Jazz greets, appearing before the three.

 

“Wha… Jazz!” Strongarm exclaims after doing a double-take. “What are you doing up? Are you feeling better?”

 

“It’s going to take more than a little shock to knock me out.”

 

Jazz chuckles and looks up at the sky.

 

“Nice day. How long was I out? Couldn’t have been more than, what, half the day?”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Actually, you’ve been out for almost two full weeks now,” Fixit informs after a moment of silence.

 

Jazz almost short-circuits from the news. Only a twitch manages to escape him.

 

“Huh, interesting,” he responds vaguely.

 

Strongarm and Fixit exchange a worried glance with each other. Behind them, Fracture watches.

 

“Jazz, when you woke up, did you notice anything wrong with your systems?” Strongarm asks. “Fixit said you absorbed a… data packet of sorts when you were shocked.”

 

“It is more complicated than that, but what Strongarm said is true,” Fixit adds. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do anything about it.”

 

“It’s okay, I’ve got it under control,” Jazz reassures the worriers.

 

“And when you say that, you mean..?”

 

“It’s in here…” Jazz points to his head, indicating his brain module, and by extension, his processor. “But it isn’t runnin’ rampant like before. I’m good, for now, but I think I’ll stay away from that pod until I understand this better.”

 

The escape pod remains standing where it was set. Staring at it gives Jazz a chill. He’s not sure whether to be concerned or flattered. Perhaps annoyed that someone he’s never even met has gotten under his plating in more ways than one in less than a minute.

 

“By the way, aren’t you afraid of other humans seeing this?” Jazz asks.

 

“Oh, yeah, about that,” Strongarm replies, lips curling slightly, embarrassed. “We were going to move it, eventually. Today, in fact, but something came up, so it’s just us.”

 

Ah.

 

“That would explain the lack of bots,” Jazz says.

 

“Yup,” Strongarm mumbles.

 

“Where to, if you don’t mind me asking.”

 

This, Strongarm is more hesitant to answer. She dawdles for a minute before answering.

 

“It’s where Blurr and his group are stationed, sort of. A bunch of tech is out of control, and let’s just say Underbite went into a feeding frenzy while eavesdropping, so he’s there, helping in his own way, with Grimlock and Sideswipe. I trusted Thunderhoof to look after them.”

 

Now there’s a surprise. Jazz, the professional that he is, hides his shock well.

 

Thunderhoof must have earned Strongarm’s respect, or else she wouldn’t have left him in charge of her team.

 

“And everyone else?” Jazz prods.

 

“Still looking for the Lieutenant and Steeljaw,” Fixit says.

 

Jazz hums. That makes sense. Neither side will stop searching until they find one or the other or both, dead or alive.

 

Preferably alive.

 

On a whim, or simply because he can, Jazz decides to address the odd bot out.

 

“A little surprised you’re sitting there behaving yourself, Fracture. What, these guys didn’t give you anything to do?”

 

Fracture’s shoulders, where his minicons are docked, shudder violently. With a stiff jerk on their master’s part, the movement ceases exponentially. Jazz has no doubt that Fracture is telling them not to let the Autobot taunt them.

 

The shivers remain, though not as pronounced as before.

 

“Call it leverage,” Fracture answers, holding onto his vitriol, letting it show itself, but not releasing it, keeping it caged. “It’s what everyone’s been arguing about for days. None of us liked it, but little red white and blue here made enough of an impression on Thunderhoof to get him to agree to leaving one of us here under guarded supervision at all times.”

 

“And you drew the short straw,” Jazz says, silently praising Strongarm for a job well done. She’s coming into her own, that one.

 

Whenever Bumblebee returns, Jazz guarantees that he will be in for one hell of a surprise.

 

“Well it certainly wasn’t going to be Clampdown or Underbite, and Thunderhoof has to have free roam as acting leader. Most of us were considering Quillfire, but then Hoof got all defensive for some reason, which left me.”

 

Strongarm didn’t mention it specifically, but when she told Jazz everything that happened that night, he noticed the subtle yet questioning looks she sent Thunderhoof and Quillfire’s way.

 

There is something going on between those two, but no one is allowed to ask, as per part of the truce.

 

What a pain.

 

Oh well, Jazz will just have to find a work around.

*KZzzzzTttt*

 

Jazz’s smirk falls a fraction. It sounds like, feels like, a message fighting to get through.

 

It wouldn’t be anyone from Cybertron; they’d call the Alchemor.

 

It wouldn’t be any one of Team Bee, not when the others don’t know that he’s awake.

 

There is no reason for the Decepticons to call him, assuming they had his number.

 

*ZzzzzBbTtt*

 

Jazz presses a palm to his audial.

 

“Jazz?” Strongarm speaks, concerned, stepping closer. “What is it?”

 

“I…” His visor slides into place, displaying question marks, indecipherable scribbles, and infinite loading bars. “I think someone’s trying to call, and it ain’t going well.”

 

“Do you know who?”

 

“I don’t. No designation anywhere.”

 

“Mmm… Perhaps they are in a spot with a bad signal,” Fixit says, wheeling up the ramp and into the command center. “Let me see if I can trace it.”

 

While the process takes only a few minutes, the wait feels agonizingly longer.

 

“There!”

 

A slow blinking red dot is smack dab in the middle of a screen full of green.

 

“The Amazon rainforest? You’ve got to be joking!” Strongarm exclaims, optics glitching from a sudden spike of frustration. “What is a bot doing all the way down there?”

 

“We’ll have to ask ‘em once we find them,” Jazz says, already making his way over to the ground-bridge. He gives Fracture a light shove with his ped as he passes by. “You, too, con. Not leaving you here by yourself. You’re a bounty hunter, so you’re going to make yourself useful.”

 

The incredulous confusion at Jazz’s audacity, the Autobot spy master himself feels positively warm and giddy inside as he senses those emotions and more rolling off Fracture, leaking out of his guarded EM field.

 

“Wait, Jazz…”

 

“Don’t worry about a thing, Strongarm. I’ll take responsibility for him.”

 

“That’s not…”

 

“Hit it, Fixit!”

 

Strongarm’s protests are drowned out by the ground-bridge powering on.

Sorry, kid, but I’m taking over from here, Jazz silently admits as he steps through the portal. He has the feeling that this mysterious signal is connected to recent events. The question is how much, and Jazz isn’t planning on stopping until he knows.

Notes:

Happy Halloween!

Chapter 7: Cloak

Notes:

Warning for violence and minor gore!

This is a Transformers fic, what do you expect?

Strongarm just stands there, staring at the ground-bridge, flabbergasted.

 

Did Jazz seriously just hijack my job?

 

She can’t believe this.

 

What. The. Hell.

 

“Strongarm, I highly suggest you and Fracture make haste, before something non-native comes through and decides to live here,” Fixit speaks enough sense to breach the fembot’s jumbled thoughts.

 

Silence.

 

Then, a long-suffering sigh.

 

“Well, looks like we’re going,” Strongarm says. As she stomps toward the portal, she addresses the elephant in the room, so to speak. “Come on, Fracture.”

 

She barely hears him getting up and following her, attention elsewhere.

 

What is going on? Why did Jazz react like that? We needed to discuss things and he just ups and calls the shots and then wanders off!

 

“Fixit, send another ground-bridge in an hour,” Strongarm orders. “This should hopefully not take too long.”

 

“Affirmative!” Fixit chirps. “Shall I inform the others of your departure?”

 

“Later. Let them focus on their own objectives. And like I said, this shouldn’t take long.”

 

Instinct is telling her otherwise, but Strongarm doesn’t possess the wherewithal to care about a feeling.

 

A feeling that disappears the second she makes contact with the other side. Her senses are pelted by a bevy of bright colors and loud, distinct noises. Nature’s city, in a sense, complete with skyscraper-sized trees and streets of mud, vegetation crowded in on all sides, fighting for space. The atmosphere is heavy with humidity. Gross, sticky, it clogs her vents, and clings to her plating. Hundreds upon thousands of microscopic pests assault her optics and audio receptors, disorienting her, making it difficult to fully process her surroundings.

 

“Definitely not a place for law bots.”

 

Swatting a swarm of bugs out of her face, Strongarm looks over her shoulder at Fracture, who blends in a little better with the rainforest, but still sticks out enough to not lose sight of. His smirk isn’t as ferocious or demeaning as usual, suggesting a shift in temperament.

 

“Don’t go getting any ideas, Fracture,” Strongarm warns. “Just because Thunderhoof isn’t here doesn’t mean the rules are null and void.”

 

“Yeah yeah, I know,” Fracture rolls his optics in dismissal. “It’d be no problem to disappear here, not that I’d want to. The damn air is so stifling…”

 

Talons fly in front of his face.

 

“Go away!”

 

He is being pestered by bugs, too, amusing Strongarm.

 

“At least that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about,” the fembot comments, eliciting a scoff from Fracture.

 

The two trudge through the rainforest, following Jazz’s tracks.

 

After about ten “painful” minutes, the trail stops at the edge of a gully, inside of which are rocks and flowers, more shades of green than one can count, and waterfalls, miniature ones, flowing out of random holes everywhere. Strongarm stands starstruck for a bit.

 

Then, movement.

 

A white and black figure crawls out of a tunnel at the base, directly under Strongarm and Fracture.

 

“Hey, Jazz!” Strongarm calls out, her earlier agitation quickly returning.

 

“Oh, hey, Strongarm!” Jazz calls back, raising a welcoming servo at the other Autobot, a pleased smile on his face. “Glad you caught up! Things don’t seem to be slowing you down!”

 

Strongarm clenches her jaw. While it isn’t a far drop, she’d rather not risk it. She subdues her temper and carefully scales the wall of terra firma. Fracture is just as careful, but a whole lot faster; he reaches the bottom before she does. Once on relatively flat ground, Strongarm circulates her ventilation and rounds on Jazz.

 

“Not to speak out of term around a superior officer, but don’t run off like that again without speaking to me first,” Strongarm reprimands.

 

“My bad, didn’t mean to upset ya,” Jazz replies, bringing his other servo up, imitating a placating gesture. “Wanted to get a head start. Guess I was a little eager.”

 

“What do you mean?” Strongarm asks with a tilt of her helm.

 

Jazz, standing leisurely, moves his servos to his hips.

 

“I have the sneaking suspicion that whoever was calling is related to that pod you guys found, and the information that’s now locked in my mind.”

 

Strongarm blinks.

 

That wasn’t what she was expecting.

 

She shares a look with Fracture, who appears as equally bewildered as her.

 

“What gives you that idea?” The bounty hunter questions.

 

“Ah. While I couldn’t understand a word of what was being said, I saw glyphs that I’m assuming were a name, or part of a comm code, and they resembled some of the glyphs I saw from the code that entered my systems,” Jazz explains, holding his pointer digit up like a lecturer would. “It might not be the same mech who owned that pod, but I bet that they’re connected. Probably from the same place, maybe even acquainted if we’re lucky.”

 

The mecha take a moment to process the information.

 

Within that albeit short timeframe, a sense of unease crawls into Strongarm’s spark, wedging itself in her chamber. She instinctively reaches for her Decepticon hunter attached to her hip. She doesn’t pull it, yet, strongly resisting the temptation.

 

“Mmm… Looks like both of you got a feeling, too,” Jazz mumbles, hunched over slightly, bracing his pedes against the slick earthy floor. He is prepared to move the second something goes awry.

 

Strongarm doesn’t need to turn around to see what Fracture looks like; she’s certain a professional bounty hunter like him is on high alert as well.

 

Everything that can be considered a distraction is filtered out.

 

Now, it is a waiting game.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Several things happen in less than a minute.

 

Fracture, following his gut, releases his minicons merely milliseconds before he’s shot.

 

Airazor and Divebomb, both in bipedal mode, rush to their carrier, voices cracking in concern.

 

Strongarm’s Decepticon hunter-turned-Protoblaster is equipped and pointed in the general direction of where she assumes the shot came from.

 

Jazz takes his own weapon out and runs away, possibly to divert the shooter’s attention. Strongarm can only hope… 

 

She doesn’t know what to do, what to think. She’s dealt with enemies shooting at her from long distances, but this is different. It feels different.

 

This is not the same as the time Steeljaw’s pack destroyed the scrapyard.

 

She keeps her weapon trained on what’s in front of her, despite having no idea what or where she should focus her aim, and stumbles back. She startles when she feels her ped touch something, but a hurried glance soothes her nerves, as it is only Fracture.

 

Sparkrate picks up.

 

Fracture is down.

 

He was the one who was shot.

 

Strongarm forgot for a second.

 

How could she forget?

 

She takes a knee to check on him.

 

“Fracture…”

 

“I’m fine,” the bounty hunter hisses.

 

A beat of relief.

 

“Good, you’re not dead.”

 

Strongarm chances another look, assessing Fracture’s condition. Aside from minor scuffs accumulated from the environment, the only serious injury is a hole in his right shoulder, energon leaking out in rivulets.

 

“Wasn’t planning on dying today or anytime soon, thanks,” Fracture sarcastically responds, pressing his left servo to the wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding. “Damn, that was a good shot.”

 

He looks up, sharp optics scanning their surroundings.

 

“Doubt it was easy, considering all the trees.”

 

He goes quiet as puzzle pieces are rearranged to fit together.

 

Strongarm doesn’t understand how he can stay so calm. Yes, she knows panicking won’t help, and it isn’t like she hasn’t been in her fair share of stressful situations.

 

However, once more, this isn’t like those other times. A part of her has been trying to warn her all this time and she hasn’t listened to it until very recently.

 

An amused huff brings her attention back to Fracture.

 

“Got to be a professional.”

 

“How do you know?” Strongarm asks.

 

Her answer doesn’t come from Fracture, but from another shot. It passed so close that Strongarm felt the air become displaced as it flew by. It lodges itself neatly in the wall right behind her and Fracture, exactly one centimeter to their right.

 

A warning shot.

 

If it was meant to kill, the shooter would have not missed.

 

That fact has become clear to Strongarm.

 

The intent has become clear to all of them.

 

“Nevermind. Move. Now.”

 

“Yep.”

 

Strongarm hauls Fracture up by his good arm and runs for cover. She stumbles when Airazor and Divebomb jump onto their carrier, clinging to his body for dear life, but she swiftly regains her footing and picks up the pace. She has no idea where she’s going, only that they shouldn’t stay out in the open.

 

They might have to take shelter underground.

 

In the ground, not necessarily under?

 

Whichever the case, the harder they are to spot, the better.

 

Not too far away is an opening big enough for Cybertronians to fit through. Strongarm heads straight for it, and she doesn’t hesitate to shove Fracture and his minicons in first. There isn’t much room to move around at first, but a little further in the tunnel widens just enough.

 

“I… I think we’re safe, for now,” Strongarm says, sounding as if she were out of breath.

 

“Uh-huh, sure, whatever you say,” Fracture grumbles, taking a seat once his minicons have detached themselves.

 

Divebomb and Airazor ask their questions in succession.

 

“Are you alright, boss?”

 

“Want us to help you?”

 

“You know we’ll do anything you ask.”

 

“Like take care of that wound for you.”

 

“I’m fine, pipsqueaks. You both know I’ve taken worse,” Fracture reprimands, somewhat gently.

 

Strongarm keeps her focus on the entrance to the tunnel. She doesn’t want to intrude on the “moment” carrier and minis are having. Besides, she must stay on alert. Someone could come in and attack them at any minute.

 

Or Jazz could show up and Strongarm accidentally shoots him. That is also a possibility.

 

“Dammit.”

 

“What?” Strongarm asks, glancing over her shoulder.

 

“I left my repair kit back at base,” Fracture groans, knocking his helm back against the hard wall. “Can’t believe I forgot it.”

 

“You don’t have anything on you that you can use?”

 

“Nothing that would get the bullet out, seal the lines, and patch the hole.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Did Strongarm hear that right?

 

“Did you say bullet?” Strongarm asks.

 

“Yeah,” Fracture replies simply.

 

This time, Strongarm fully turns around and faces Fracture good and proper.

 

“Are you sure it’s a bullet?”

 

“Well it certainly wasn’t a damn energy beam. I’d know if I was hit by one of those,” Fracture rebukes.

 

The new intel leaves a roiling, unpleasant feeling in Strongarm’s tanks.

 

“Where would somebody get their hands on bullets strong enough to pierce through our armor, in one shot, from a distance?”

 

“That’s a good question,” is what Jazz says, but since Strongarm didn’t expect him, she swerves on her heel and shoots. Thankfully, it seems Jazz was expecting that reaction and immediately dodged the attack.

 

“Scrap, Jazz, I’m so sorry!” Strongarm apologizes as soon as she realizes what almost happened. She lowers her weapon, but doesn’t completely drop her guard.

 

“Hey hey, it’s all good,” Jazz shrugs off with aplomb as he joins the hiding mecha. “Not the first time an ally attacked me, and I doubt it will ever be the last. So, how’s our con friend doing?”

 

“You mean aside from being shot at twice and having an armor-piercing bullet stuck in my shoulder?” Fracture questions.

 

“You’re alive, that counts for something.”

 

Fracture just grumbles at Jazz’s positivity.

 

“Did you find whoever was shooting at us?” Strongarm asks, nerves running a mile a minute. She is afraid that if she lets her guard down again… 

 

What if the aggressor followed Jazz, and they’re just waiting for the right moment to strike, to take them all down in one fell swoop?

 

But then, why didn’t they do that originally, when the three of them were clustered together in plain view?

 

“Nope, but I have a couple theories as to how we can find out without putting ourselves at unnecessary risk,” Jazz indulges in a smirk, cool and collected as usual.

 

“Which would be..?” Strongarm inquires, leaning closer to hear better. She doesn’t want to miss any details.

 

“It looks like it’s going to storm soon, so the shooter will most likely avoid attacking again due to the weather. If they aren’t hiding in a good spot, they’ll have to retreat and take cover somewhere. We can make our move then, and head in the direction they fired from. That’s option one. Option two, the shooter isn’t just a shooter, and can work with other weapons in close quarters, like blades, or good old fashioned hand-to-hand combat. In that case, they’ll attack while they have us pinned down, right now, before the storm hits. Or during the storm, if they think that we won’t pick dealing with the weather over them.”

 

All sound points. Strongarm can’t argue with any of it. Neither does it look like Fracture is going to argue, instead silently agreeing with Jazz.

 

“In either case, we don’t make our move just yet. We wait, for however long it takes.”

Chapter 8: Dagger

Notes:

I want to give a special thank you to the writing tips I found on Instagram on how to write fight scenes because otherwise this chapter probably wouldn't have happened or been complete without it.

*cries in agony and relief*

I STAYED UP TILL FIVE PAST MIDNIGHT FINISHING THIS CHAPTER BECAUSE THAT STUPID FIGHT SCENE DIDN'T WANT TO COOPERATE! AUGH!

But it's here. It's finally here. I'm going to take a couple days off from writing, at least this story, and recover from the nightmare that was this chapter. I hope you all enjoy!

Oh, and one more thing,
~ spot the Dr.STONE easter egg I wrote in on accident, but after the fact, left in on purpose ~

It doesn’t take long for the rain to start.

 

It doesn’t begin as a drizzle that gradually picks up speed and power.

 

It arrives as a torrential downpour.

 

The forest outside is reduced to smudges of greens and grays. The Cybertronians can’t make out anything concrete through the onslaught. How anything remains standing is a mystery. For the offworlders, it is a testament to how resilient Earth truly is.

 

“Wow, it’s really comin’ down out there,” Jazz says, having to raise his voice in order to be heard over the thunderous pounding. “Good thing this ain’t Cybertron and its acid rain.”

 

“I’d rather not think about that,” Strongarm says, audibly shivering at the mere mention of their homeworld’s own destructive weather patterns.

 

“Yeah, guess we should be grateful that we’re not at risk of literally melting just by going outside,” Fracture sarcastically adds. “But I could do without this damn atmosphere. It’s so…”

 

“Stifling? Pretty sure you said that earlier,” Strongarm interrupts.

 

“Well it is! Don’t tell me your insides are comfortably cool and ventilated right now, because I bet they aren’t.”

 

“I never said they were.”

 

While the two younger bots bicker, Jazz keeps his attention on the entrance.

 

C’mon, mech, take the bait.

 

If only Jazz could send a message to the mystery mech to hurry up and make a move, preferably to come looking for them. Not that Jazz isn’t capable, – or Strongarm or Fracture and his minicons – but he’d rather not have to try and track them down out in that mess. Although, from what the group has witnessed thus far, their attacker is clever, a little bold as well. Their shooting prowess is nothing to laugh at, either.

 

Two shots.

 

The first hit Fracture.

 

The second was close; it could have hit any one of them.

 

Like his comrades, Jazz figures the missed shot was on purpose, leading him to believe what Fracture also suspected, that they are dealing with a professional, someone who knows how to use the environment to their advantage, and one who does not mind showing off what they are capable of.

 

Jazz adds “proud” and “egocentric” to his growing profile.

 

Just what kind of mech are you, and why do you want us dead?

 

That is the part that really has Jazz confused. Worried, bothered; whatever one wants to call it.

 

Were they led here on purpose, or was it by pure happenstance?

 

Was the mystery mech expecting an ally, only to realize their mistake?

 

Jazz wouldn’t consider this whole thing the result of a mistake, per-se; a misunderstanding, rather. Still, it leaves him wondering what provoked such a violent reaction.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“I’m goin’ out,” Jazz speaks up after a while. There are donuts being performed in his processor, and it is driving him crazy.

 

The best way to solve this conundrum, and effectively halt, or at least slow down the chaos occurring in his mind, is to take action.

 

The quarreling mecha behind Jazz fall deathly quiet.

 

“What?” Strongarm eventually spits out, voice staticky from arguing with Fracture. “What are you talking about? You’re not going out in that weather! It’s too dangerous!”

 

“For the most part, it’s harmless to us. It’s what it does to everything else that’s the dangerous part,” Jazz reasons, already inching toward the entrance. “Besides, it seems like whoever was shooting at us earlier decided to take shelter, which means this is our best chance to go find ‘em and get some answers.”

 

Jazz can practically feel Strongarm’s glare boring into his back. He stops at the hole in the wall.

 

“Another thing…”

 

A shimmer among raindrops catches his optic. He abruptly ceases talking and hones in. It is difficult to see, but if he focuses, resets his visual sensors to a higher caliber… 

 

There.

 

Straight ahead.

 

A few rows back, balancing on a treebranch.

 

The shape is difficult to make out, but it looks big enough to be a Cybertronian.

 

Jazz doesn’t know for sure, but he has a feeling.

 

He smiles.

 

There you are.

 

Which can only mean one thing.

 

“Jazz?”

 

The spy swiftly backpedals. He twists his frame and lunges for Strongarm, tackling her to the ground. She struggles for a few seconds before there’s a hollow ringing in their hideaway, accompanied by shattered earth and stone.

 

“Woulda warned ya if I had time,” Jazz explains, voice low. He pulls away slightly, enough to look at the face of the fembot in his arms. “You good?”

 

Terrified blue optics slowly blink.

 

“I… I think so,” Strongarm stammers. “I just… I didn’t expect that.”

 

A harsh, somewhat humorless huff escapes Jazz.

 

“Heh. Our new friend is full of nasty surprises.”

 

This isn’t a laughing matter, but he is getting exhilarated, excited.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying this!” Strongarm hisses.

 

“Kinda, yeah,” Jazz shrugs. He would have added a comment along the lines of – Reminds me of the old days – but he doesn’t have the time.

 

None of them have the time for conversation anymore.

 

What little light was left to illuminate the tunnel is suddenly blocked out, leaving them in complete darkness, sans their optics and biolights.

 

A streak of violent glowing red is a blip on the radar as a mass of metal and something else collides with Jazz and Strongarm. It pushes and claws at them, strong enough to force them back back back. Plating scrapes against the ground. Dirt and pebbles become lodged under plating, digging into protoform.

 

A weapon.

 

Jazz needs his weapon.

 

But he can’t grab it.

 

His arms are still wrapped around Strongarm, holding her closer than before, protecting her from accruing more damage.

 

“Jazz!”

 

The spy almost didn’t hear his name, having Strongarm pressed so close to his chassis. The claws and teeth pulverizing his frame are not helping with his ability to hear.

 

“‘M fine. Gonna get us outta here.”

 

“How? What is attacking us?”

 

Good question. Jazz is certain that it’s a Cybertronian of some kind, but then there’s the stuff that doesn’t make any sense.

 

All of a sudden, the mass disappears. It didn’t feel like it moved of its own accord, though. Jazz looks up to see Fracture grappling with… 

 

Honestly, Jazz has no idea.

 

“Strongarm, ever seen anything like that before?” He asks, releasing the fembot from his hold.

 

Immediately, Strongarm is on her knees and equipping her Decepticon hunter. Once she’s visualized it into a Protoblaster, she turns around. Then, she freezes, optics resetting a couple times.

 

“I… No, I haven’t.”

 

“Great,” Jazz sighs, picking himself up off the ground. He ignores the pain flaring from multiple wounds all over his frame.

 

Superficial. Nothing to worry about.

 

Jazz reaches for his blaster, prepared to join the fight.

 

“WATCH OUT!”

 

The warning isn’t enough to get Jazz to move. A weight slams into his front. He is completely thrown off his pedes and onto his back. Sharp, throbbing, hot pain radiates from his spinal strut. Sparks jump across his body, connecting with the one on top of him.

 

“Didn’t expect a tail,” Fracture mutters.

 

Ah.

 

How wonderful.

 

Just what are they dealing with?

 

Audio receptors pick up a very familiar sound.

 

Jazz quickly yet gently angles Fracture out of the way so that he can see.

 

While they were disoriented, their adversary took the opportunity to transform: long golden limbs attached to a torso hidden behind a cape of green and blue feathers. Whereas the right arm appears mostly normal, adorned with black claws and more feathers, the left arm is completely and utterly abnormal, what with it being the beast mode’s neck and head. Speaking of heads, the one out now really stands out with a red mask atop golden metal. It also brings attention to the pair of glaring white optics zeroed in on the prone mecha.

 

This is the first time Jazz has ever seen anyone with white optics. To say he is captivated would be an understatement.

 

“Knew you were Cybertronian,” Jazz mentions, a smirk tugging at his lips.

 

Their attacker scoffs and flicks his head back. Optics narrow slightly, a dangerous glint to them. EM field and body language read incensed yet amused.

 

They say something in a language Jazz doesn’t understand. A quick glance at Fracture and Strongarm shows that neither of them understand, either.

 

Well ain’t that a twist. He seems to understand us, but we can’t understand him. Things just keep getting more interesting, don’t they?

 

Jazz shouldn’t be in his own thoughts right now.

 

At least this time he is able to avoid an attack from the feathered mech.

 

However, they are fast.

 

The feathered mech instantly recovers from their folly and strikes again and again, fancy footwork making their job of attacking and avoiding counters a breeze.

 

They leave Jazz and the others very little breathing room.

 

Space to dodge, time to use a weapon, all null and void as their opponent fights in a way they’ve rarely if ever experienced.

 

Strongarm especially is completely out of her league, and is soon pegged as the weak link.

 

After sending both Jazz and Fracture to their knees, the feathered mech turns and lunges at Strongarm. She raises her Decepticon hunter and uses it as a shield against the claws headed straight for her face. The first swipe is deflected, but the ones following it are more vicious, more urgent than the last.

 

By the time Jazz and Fracture recover, Strongarm is on her back, pinned to the ground.

 

Thank the Primes she’s durable.

 

Still, Jazz isn’t letting anything bad happen to the fembot on his watch. He signals Fracture to follow his lead, then charges at their opponent. No chance they can outmaneuver two mechs attacking him from behind at once.

 

Unfortunately, their adversary still has another trick up the proverbial sleeve.

 

Feathers, utilized as flying projectiles, are ejected from folded wings.

 

Too close.

 

Can’t dodge.

 

Jazz raises his arms in front of his face and neck.

 

He was prepared to have a dozen or so feathers embedded in his plating; what he was not expecting was for the projectiles to explode upon contact.

 

Back on the ground, he and Fracture are nonplussed, one more so than the other.

 

“Wing bombs? Are you fragging kidding me?” Fracture snarls, talons leaving gouges in the earth as his frustration comes to a boiling point. “This is getting ridiculous. You know what? That’s it. AIRAZOR! DIVEBOMB! WHERE ARE YOU?”

 

“Here, boss!”

 

Suddenly, two forms drop from the ceiling and land on the feathered mech. Small claws dig into their shoulders and start pulling. The feathered mech stops trying to get at Strongarm and steps away from her, now completely focused on the two minicons. He looks annoyed, but Jazz also picks up a hint of fear.

 

Perfect.

 

Fracture’s minicons just provided him an opportunity.

 

Smirking, Jazz surges to his pedes and closes the distance between himself and the feathered mech.

 

Thankfully, Airazor and Divebomb jump ship just before Jazz reaches them, for the force with which he tackles the enemy would not have been conducive to their health as minicons.

 

*THUD*

 

Jazz just knows that he’s going to regret that later, on top of everything else, but the body jerking against his leads him to ignore all of that for, again, later, as he finally has their mystery mech restrained. Well, sort of. He won't be going anywhere anytime soon, though, if Jazz has anything to say about it. Besides, using those wing bombs this close would be a very bad idea.

 

“Hey, thanks for the distraction, lil’ dudes. I’m not in the habit of owing anyone, let alone Decepticons, but for you I’ll make an exception,” Jazz says, peeking over his shoulder at the minicons.

 

“We’re gonna hold ya to that, Autobot,” Divebomb replies, climbing onto Fracture alongside Airazor.

 

Jazz nods, then turns to Strongarm, who is starting to get back on her pedes, using the wall for support. Her Decepticon hunter is still held tightly in her servo.

 

“How you holding up, Strongarm?” Jazz asks.

 

“I’m managing, all things considered,” Strongarm replies, voice hoarse, doubtless from the stress. Gaze moves from Jazz to the mech he has pinned against the wall. “What are we going to do about him?”

 

“Well, for starters, I don’t think cuffs are an option,” Jazz huffs. The bestial head and neck that makes up the feathered mech’s left arm, the arm he himself has a forceful grip around, makes restraints like cuffs useless… 

 

But there are other ways to get a captive to behave.

 

“I think I have an idea on how we can keep him docile until we return.”

 

“How?” Strongarm questions. If she weren’t so tired and hurt, she’d probably bring herself to care and quote a page from her officer manual.

 

Which is a good thing, in this instance, because otherwise the fembot would not approve of what the spy has in mind.

 

“Talk to him, set some things straight,” Jazz replies innocently enough. He takes his right servo away from the wall and presses it to his captive’s wings. “Maybe ruffle a few feathers, as the humans say.”

 

The feathered mech almost dislodges his captor as he trembles in festering rage.

 

{DON’T YOU DARE, YOU FILTHY CYBERTRONIAN!}

 

{Filthy? And ain’t you Cybertronian, too?} Jazz argues, not realizing the significance of the interaction as he attempts to wrestle back control.

 

The feathered mech is angry and thrashing one moment, and confuzzled and still the next.

 

{You… You understand what I am saying?}

 

Huh? What is this guy talking about?

 

“Uh, Jazz..?”

 

The spy turns his helm. Strongarm, Fracture, and the minicons are standing nearby, staring at him with similar expressions to that of the feathered mech.

 

“Yeah?” Jazz replies.

 

“What language were you speaking just now?” Strongarm asks.

 

Jazz opens and closes his mouth.

 

How did that happen?

 

How can he speak a language none of them have ever heard before?

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Oh.

 

Wait.

 

Lightbulb moment.

 

“I think that data shock did more than I thought,” Jazz says, too thrown off by the revelation to emote normally.

 

The tunnel is quiet for a minute.

 

“So, none of us can understand Feathers over there except Jazz, but he can understand us just fine?” Fracture summarizes, pointing at their adversary, who hisses in response.

 

“I don’t think he likes the nickname,” Jazz observes.

 

“Well, it’s not like we know his actual name,” Strongarm counters.

 

All gazes turn onto the feathered mech. He returns each one with a wicked glare.

 

“Care to tell us who you are?” Jazz asks, unable to keep himself from smiling. From the beginning, he’s wanted to know who this mech was/is/whatever, and now he has them.

 

At first, the feathered mech looks alarmed, defensive. He sneers at Jazz and turns his face away, as much as he can in his position.

 

Jazz frowns. Without thinking, he switches to the stranger’s tongue.

 

{Can you please tell us who you are? I promise to let you go. Not released from custody, but I won’t practically be on top of you.}

 

To prove his point, Jazz removes his servo from the mech’s feathers and takes one small step back. While it isn’t much, it is clearly enough for the other mech, who immediately relaxes.

 

{Not that you or your companions deserve to know, but since you have refrained from further ruining my plumage, I suppose I can tell you.}

 

White optics glisten in arrogance and self-confidence.

{Archadis.}

Notes:

More information on our pompous prehistoric assassin will be revealed in the next chapter, so stay tuned!

Chapter 9: Revelations, part 1

Notes:

Personal headcanon: Archadis sounds like Mephisto from the English dub of "Blue Exorcist" [voice actor - Sam Riegel]

“Archadis.”

 

Jazz emphasizes the word.

 

No, not a word.

 

A name.

 

The name of their attacker.

 

Strongarm doesn’t know how Jazz coaxed it out of them, but she’s too tired to care.

 

“An interesting name. Mine is Jazz, by the way. ‘Course you probably don’t care. You obviously don’t like us. Why is that? It wouldn’t have anything to do with what you called me earlier, now would it?”

 

Archadis sneers at Jazz.

 

Strongarm doesn’t think he’s going to answer, so she asks a question of her own.

 

“What did he say?”

 

Jazz looks at the fembot, seemingly lost for a sec.

 

“We want to know what Feathers is saying since we can’t understand him,” Fracture says.

 

Archadis spits out a word.

 

Maybe a few words.

 

It’s difficult to tell.

 

Jazz looks at Archadis through narrowed optics and says, “I don’t know what that means, but I’m assumin’ it’s supposed to be an insult.”

 

“Jazz,” Strongarm says, forcing her voice to sound more firm. Her injuries, coupled with the weather, are expediting her exhaustion, making it hard to stay in control.

 

“I got it, Strongarm. I’m playin’ interpreter for the foreseeable future. No worries, I’ve got this completely under control. Oh, and Fracture?”

 

“What?” The bounty hunter growls.

 

“I suggest not calling this guy Feathers anymore, unless you want a heap of nasty stuff thrown your way.”

 

Archadis opens his mouth.

 

More indescribable chatter comes out.

 

“Okay, I understood what that meant, and might I say, completely uncalled for,” Jazz reprimands his captive, his grip around their dual wrist/neck appendage increasing.

 

Archadis winces. His sneer wavers.

 

“What’d he say now?” Fracture asks.

 

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Jazz says.

 

Fracture looks like he is going to push the matter and force an answer out of Jazz.

 

“Can you tell us what he said earlier?” Strongarm intercedes before an argument can start.

 

That gets Fracture to shut his mouth. It also gets Jazz to loosen his grip on Archadis, though not by much. Not enough for him to attempt an escape.

 

“I can, but I gotta warn ya, you’re probably not going to like it,” Jazz says.

 

“At this point, I don’t think I’ll care,” Strongarm replies.

 

Still, Jazz hesitates.

 

Though not for long, as he finally answers his younger companions.

 

“He said, “Don’t you dare, you filthy Cybertronian!”.”

 

Because of her exhaustion, Strongarm is a little slow on the uptake.

 

Fracture is tired as well, and his shoulder hurts like slag, but his sharp mind is quick to take in information and spit out appropriate facts, questions, or statements.

 

“Is he saying that he isn’t Cybertronian?”

 

“I don’t know, but I’m assumin’ so,” Jazz shrugs.

 

“What else could he be? There ain’t any other transforming mechanical beings like us anywhere in the universe!”

 

“The universe is a big place.”

 

Fracture clenches his jaw and presses a servo to his injury. There is no energon flow to stem, but damn, that bullet wound really burns.

 

Jazz, of course, notices.

 

“Hey, you alright?”

 

“No, I’m not, thanks for asking,” Fracture snarls. His glare shifts to Archadis. “But you know what would make me feel better? Is if you asked why he was trying to kill us!”

 

Jazz looks at the mech he has pinned. He seems to be having a hard time reading them, based on the pinch of his brow.

 

Archadis was staring at Strongarm, then Fracture; now, his attention is back on Jazz. He appears to be contemplating something, though it’s surprisingly hard to tell due to his pure white optics.

 

Eventually, Archadis opens his mouth and speaks. Jazz responds in that same language. They end up talking back and forth for a couple minutes.

 

Standing on the sidelines, Fracture and Strongarm are forced to wait for a translation.

 

“He says he’s willing to answer some of our questions if we let him go,” Jazz says.

 

“That’s not happening,” Strongarm immediately turns down. “He assaulted three bots and two minicons. He is not going anywhere except to a stasis pod and then Cybertron.”

 

“I meant to unhand him temporarily, not let go as in actually letting him go.”

 

“. . . Oh. Well, the point still stands.”

 

Archadis says something. The ugly glare on his face is a fine tell that his words are not friendly.

 

Jazz lifts an optical ridge. He appears confused.

 

“What’d he say now?” Strongarm asks, annoyed.

 

“I, ah, don’t know, really.”

 

Strongarm and Fracture stare as Jazz questioningly.

 

“What do you mean you don’t know? I thought you could tell what he’s saying?” Strongarm asks.

 

“I can, but not this,” Jazz replies. “I think he knows more languages than we do.”

 

“And speaks those languages fluently, too,” Fracture says, a crude smile forming. “Funny how he understands us, but doesn’t speak the same language.”

 

That’s true.

 

Strongarm didn’t think of that.

 

Everyone is staring at Archadis with a critical optic.

 

Then, it hits Strongarm, like one of Sideswipe’s “jokes”.

 

“He just doesn’t want to talk the way we do. He’s toying with us. This is all just some game to him.”

 

Archadis tilts his helm and grins, sharp, stainless fangs practically glowing in the cave.

 

Strongarm knew it. That reaction just proved her point.

 

Energon boils.

 

She is tired, and dirty, and covered in wounds and dings.

 

She is responsible for not just her team, but for a whole group of Decepticons.

 

She has to maintain order, the peace, and a “normal” life as a robot in disguise.

 

She goes on patrols and helps Denny with shopping runs.

 

She also has to send weekly reports to Cybertron.

 

And, on top of all of that, Bumblebee and Steeljaw are still missing.

 

Everything comes to a head.

 

Strongarm. Is. Done.

 

She holsters her weapon, walks over to Jazz, forces him to let go of Archadis, grabs the feathered menace by a shoulder, and strong arms him onto the ground.

 

“Here’s the deal: you are going to speak in a language we can all understand so that we can have a proper discussion about how we are going to proceed. If you behave, I’ll consider not shoving you into a stasis pod the second we return to our base. If you resist, I will pin you down again and pluck every single feather from your frame. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Shock-fear-disgust radiates from Archadis. His fangs clench, and a growl-like sound can be heard being emitted from his vocalizer.

 

Strongarm doesn’t budge. She doesn’t care right now. If circumstances were different, she’d be handling things differently. She wouldn’t be so aggressively hands-on like this. She would find another way.

 

Regardless of her personal feelings, her message gets through to Archadis. His body falls limp under Strongarm’s ped.

 

“Fine, if only for the sanctity of my feathers.”

 

Strongarm is slightly surprised. It isn’t English, but it’s an Earth language.

 

“He’s speaking a form of Portuguese, I believe,” she says, looking over her shoulder at her companions.

 

“We know,” Fracture replies.

 

“Universal translator, remember?” Jazz says, smirking.

 

Strongarm nods, but then her smile falls to a confused frown. She turns back to Archadis.

 

“Not that it did some of us much good,” she mutters as she steps off of the feathered mech.

 

“Some languages you can only learn by experiencing the culture, hatchling,” Archadis rebukes as he pushes himself up to sit. He glances at his wings and glowers. “Egad, look at my plumage! Curses, it is going to take days to repair this travesty!”

 

“I don’t think your looks should be your top priority right now,” Jazz points out.

 

“Nothing is more important than looking your best! You cannot act if you do not feel good, and you do not feel good if you know that you don’t look good! That is what I believe!”

 

“Okay okay, whatever floats your boat, my guy.”

 

Archadis sniffs haughtily.

 

“You are ridiculous. You make almost no sense whatsoever. You are juvenile yet dangerous.”

 

He scoffs and rolls his optics.

 

“However, you aren’t as annoying as others I’ve been forced to work with in the past who share your personality. I don’t know why. Perhaps, given time, I will outgrow you as I had them.”

 

“Yeesh, that’s kinda hard, saying all that stuff about your former colleagues,” Jazz says, his smile not so kind anymore.

 

Archadis cocks a brow. His feathers rise oh-so-slightly as his temper grows.

 

“You don’t even know them. How can you feel bad for them? And don’t tell me it’s your infernal “Autobot way” or any of that faction-based drivel!”

 

Strongarm, Jazz, and Fracture all share a look.

 

Archadis seemed to deny being a Cybertronian, and now he’s actively calling out the factions, at least the Autobots.

 

And taking into account his beast mode… 

 

Wait.

 

Yes.

 

An epiphany.

 

Although everything she ever learned told her otherwise, Strongarm has followed Bumblebee long enough to know that not everything can be found in books and manuals. Some things one needs to find out on their own, out in the world.

 

The Council fiasco on Cybertron years ago also gave her a reason to be suspicious of what the homeworld wants the populace to know versus what they are hiding behind the surface.

 

“Archadis…” Strongarm makes sure the feathered mech is fully paying attention to her before continuing. “Are you, by chance, a Predacon?”

 

White optics dilate.

 

No one speaks.

 

The only sound is of the ongoing storm.

 

Strongarm is willing to wait for an answer. It looks like she caught Archadis by surprise, anyway.

 

After a while, he smiles, and huffs lightly.

 

“I suppose not all homeworlders are stupid. How else would you have survived this long?”

 

Strongarm can’t help herself when a smile graces her faceplate; she loves being right!

 

“Oh, so that’s why you said all that stuff earlier,” Jazz says. “It’s ‘cause you’re not really Cybertronian, not like us. You see yourself as different.”

 

“My ancestors and I are different from the rest of you,” Archadis states confidently, defensively. “Even on the home planet, we were two entirely separate veins of creation; us the predators, and you the prey.”

 

“Yeah, we all heard the stories.”

 

“We also heard that the Predacons went extinct during the Great Cataclysm, so how do you exist?” Fracture questions.

 

“Oh dear,” Archadis snorts, greatly amused. “You modern mecha are clueless, aren’t you?”

 

He laughs as he gets to his feet and rises to his full height, brushing dust and grit from his disheveled plumage.

 

“Well, let me bestow upon you the honor of hearing a tale that has been passed down from countless generations of Predacons…”

 

Possibly against their better judgement, the Cybertronians gather around Arcadis and listen intensely to his words, not wanting to miss a single thing.

 

“Not all Predacons perished during the Great Cataclysm. Some left the planet, determined to find territories to call their own, far away from the so-called “King” and his equally brutish yet more dimwitted flock of followers. Even if they outnumbered him, these Predacons knew they were no match for the King and his terrifyingly indomitable strength.

 

However, what they lacked in physical force when compared to the King, they made up for in speed, endurance, and creativity. They were able to adapt in ways that none of the larger Predacons could understand. So one day, they all banded together, and set for the stars.

 

The journey was long and difficult. They would not rest, could not eat. Their resolve kept them going. Some did not survive.

 

But one by one, those who survived found planets to call their own, ones that spoke to their very sparks. Planets they knew they could survive on and conquer for themselves.”

 

Archadis pauses and takes a breath.

 

“That is the general history of our beginnings. The tale branches off from there, and the trials and tribulations of each individual vary depending on which Predacon you were descended from.”

 

Dumbstruck.

 

Awestruck.

 

Starstruck.

 

What else could Strongarm or her companions be after hearing all of that?

 

It’s enough to relax her, to let her guard down, just a bit.

 

Archadis has proven that he is dangerous, so Strongarm won’t let herself completely slip.

 

But, it felt so nice to not be tense for a few minutes.

 

“Well, that’d certainly be something for the history books, if anyone ever believes you,” Jazz says.

 

“They don’t have to believe it for it to be true, not that I’d expect any different from traditional Cybetronians,” Archadis replies. “Your kind loves to hide things, don’t they? Isn’t that how your petty little war started? Because some mecha tried to hide something that they didn’t like, and the wrong ones found out, and instead of solving the problem, they made it the entire universe’s problem?”

 

That snapped Strongarm out of her stupor good and quick.

 

Whether they fought in it, or were created afterward, The Great War is a sore subject for all Cybertronians. It is not to be taken lightly.

 

Apparently, that does not matter to those outside of it.

 

Strongarm senses hostile EM fields behind her.

 

“I wouldn’t talk like that about something you don’t fully understand,” Jazz says. He sounds like he is giving a warning.

 

Archadis, somehow, remains unfazed.

 

Does he simply not care?

 

Aside from something bad happening to his feathers, Archadis seems mostly unafraid.

 

Strongarm would be lying if she said that she wasn’t intrigued by the Predacon.

 

All she wants to do is to learn more.

 

But that will have to wait.

 

According to her internal chronometer, they’ve been out here for over half an hour; she told Fixit to send another ground-bridge in one hour.

 

They need to get going.

 

As Strongarm opens her mouth to relay the plan, she hopes that they can make it out of there in one piece.

Notes:

apologies for the delay, but certain parts of this chapter did not want to cooperate [as in I couldn't choose what avenue to take once I hit a certain point, so I just let my brain and fingers go wild instead]

Chapter 10: Compromise

Notes:

Sorry for the delay. The holidays are stressful, the past week especially so. I wasn't able to get any writing done until today.

This is Earth.

 

Strongarm should have known better.

 

She thought she did.

 

Bumblebee definitely would have.

 

If he was here, he would know exactly what to do to get across a raging river in the middle of a storm.

 

Probably.

 

The gully that was once here is overflowing. Water splashes out and into their little hole in the wall safe place.

 

Not so safe anymore.

 

“I know we can’t drown, but that doesn’t mean we can’t get hurt in a dozen other ways,” Jazz says.

 

“I know,” Strongarm replies, surprised by how calm she made herself sound despite hyperventilating on the inside.

 

WHAT THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?

 

Never would Strongarm have thought that she’d take a liking to human cursing. There’s just something about it that makes it roll off the tongue better than any Cybertronian expletive.

 

She won’t mention that to Sideswipe, though. She doesn’t need to give him a reason to actually want to be around her anymore than they already are.

 

“I don’t think we’re going to be catching that ground-bridge back,” Fracture mentions.

 

Strongarm looks over her shoulder at the bounty hunter. It is a little difficult to tell in the low light, but she swears that she can see cracks, miniscule as they are, starting to branch out from the bullet wound. If it goes any longer without treatment, it could get worse, and if they are stuck here for an extended period of time, there’s nothing that they can do about it.

 

As far as Strongarm is aware, none of them have anything that they can use to stop an infection from spreading, if it comes to that.

 

Optics shift.

 

They land on a feathered frame hanging back.

 

The gears are turning in Strongarm’s processor.

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

A helm cocks.

 

“Are you talking to me?” Archadis inquires.

 

“Who else?” Strongarm retorts.

 

“Well, there are two more of you, plus the minicons. The appropriate way to phrase your question would have been to be specific.”

 

Strongarm bites her inner cheek.

 

Calm. Down. Don’t give in. Don't wring his neck.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Now, are you going to answer my question?”

 

Archadis cocks his helm the other way.

 

“As to how long I have been here? Do you mean on this planet, or in this jungle in particular?”

 

“Either.”

 

Archadis cocks his helm again.

 

“Why are you determined to find that out now?”

 

As if the answer isn’t obvious, Strongarm thinks as she replies, “I need to know if there is a safer place where we can wait out this storm.”

 

Archadis stares at her for a moment, then looks away. He doesn’t answer, finding more interest in his talons than the current predicament.

 

“Archadis, do you know of any safe places near here?” Strongarm demands.

 

The feathered mech lifts a shoulder, the movement disturbing his cape of plumage.

 

“Perhaps I do. The real question is, Am I inclined to share?”

 

Strongarm is beginning to lose patience.

 

They don’t have time for this!

 

“If you don’t help us, then you’re stuck here with us as this place floods,” Strongarm states. Maybe that will get through to the feathered pain in the… 

 

“This isn’t the first monsoon I’ve dealt with,” Archadis says. “Although cleanup will be a grandiose inconvenience later on, I will manage.”

 

At first, Strongarm is irritated by the dismissal, but once the words fully sink in, she shares matching looks of intrigue with her companions.

 

“You’ve experienced storms like this before?” Jazz prods.

 

Archadis stills. After a moment, he closes his optics and sighs.

 

“Alright, I will admit that I have been on this planet, in this jungle, for an extended period of time, long enough to experience the seasons many times over.”

 

Sweet, that answers one of Strongarm’s questions!

 

But it also brings about another.

 

If Archadis has been on Earth for what sounds like a few years at least, then how come this is the first anyone has heard from or seen of him?

 

How did he go so long undetected?

 

Shut up! Now is not the time for those kinds of questions! Not that he’d answer them, I don’t think.

 

“Okay, so you’ve been here for a while. Do you have a hideout somewhere where we can stay?” Strongarm asks.

 

“Why would I take you there?” Archadis questions, brow furrowing, optics flashing in annoyance.

 

Strongarm opens her mouth to answer… 

 

But nothing comes out.

 

She is drawing a blank.

 

Archadis basically just admitted that he’d risk temporary damage to himself if it meant he could outlast the Cybertronians in this monsoon. Any threat would be meaningless. It’s not like he’s all that scared of them, anyway.

 

“Is there anything we can do that’ll convince you to change your mind?” Jazz inquires.

 

Archadis taps his chin, while humming. He doesn’t look to be in any rush, content to take his time.

 

Time the rest of them don’t want to waste.

 

“How’s your shoulder?” Strongarm asks, turning to Fracture.

 

The bounty hunter is half standing, crouched against the wall, mouth open and chassis heaving as he pants in an attempt to cool himself down. His left servo is pressed tightly to his right shoulder.

 

“Fracture?”

 

“I… I can’t feel my right arm,” the purple mech admits, voice husky. “Haven’t felt it for the past five minutes.”

 

“Wh…Why didn’t you say anything?” Strongarm responds in a tizzy.

 

“Like we can do anything about it,” Fracture huffs.

 

True.

 

Fair point.

 

Strongarm did note that earlier.

 

But she doesn’t want a Decepticon to prove her right, not now of all times!

 

“Well, we’ll figure something out, eventually,” Strongarm says.

 

“Oh yeah? When?” Fracture asks. “Unless we get that Predacon to cooperate, we’re as good as rusted.”

 

Also true.

 

Strongarm fights to think of something, anything, that she could use against Archadis.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Or maybe, she needs to start thinking a little differently.

 

Outside of the box.

 

Her box.

 

“Archadis.”

 

The addressed mech turns to Strongarm, a fierce, inquisitive, playful glint in his optics.

 

“Yes?”

 

This is it, whether Strongarm likes it or not.

 

“What do you want in exchange for helping us?”

 

That catches Archadis’ interest. His helm tilts slightly, and a corner of his mouth curls up to form a partial smirk.

 

“Oh, is the shooting at you no longer an issue?”

 

Strongarm feels one of her optics twitch.

 

Calm. Calm. Release your stress later.

 

“Later, that will be discussed, but for now, all I care about is all of us getting out of here.”

 

Strongarm doesn’t know how seriously Archadis is taking any of this, but at least he seems to be taking her words and reasoning into consideration.

 

The problem is, his stalling is cutting into what little time they have left.

 

“Archadis…”

 

“Let’s move this along, shall we?” Jazz interrupts, stalking forward, a pair of stasis cuffs clutched in one servo.

 

Strongarm blinks. She can only stare.

 

Did he have those with him the entire time? Why is he bringing them out now? And didn’t he say they would be useless anyway?

 

However, it all soon becomes clear to Strongarm as Jazz grabs Archadis, and before he can attempt to escape, locks one part of the cuffs around his wrist.

 

“Unhand me, you..!” Archadis freezes, optics blown wide in shock as Jazz locks the other part of the cuffs around his own wrist, essentially binding the two together.

 

Strongarm glances at Fracture. Despite his not-so-good state, the bounty hunter is aware enough to watch what is unfolding before them, and he looks about as surprised as Strongarm.

 

“There, now you’ve got no choice but to help us, unless you don’t mind being stuck with us for eternity in this jungle as rusting corpses,” Jazz says, a little too jovial for anyone’s liking.

 

But perhaps a bit of insanity is just what they need?

 

It certainly has shaken up Archadis.

 

“If you were a Predacon, you would be absolutely terrifying.”

 

“Why thank you, pal, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jazz replies, grinning. “So, you gonna help us, or stay trapped here forever?”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Archadis releases a breath, his hiked shoulders lowering, ruffled feathers settling. He reads as displeased, yet slightly relaxed.

 

Okay, not relaxed.

 

More like resigned to his fate.

 

“I will help, then, as I have no choice. However, I cannot do anything unless I am -allowed- to transform.”

 

The way in which Archadis says “allowed” leaves a chill in the otherwise humid air, full of disdain and disbelief, of a restrained, primal rage. He is a Predacon, a free, wild spirit at spark, and he is being treated, handled, like a typical Cybertronian criminal. A position he clearly finds degrading, insulting to his pride.

 

Strongarm wants more than anything to follow the rule book, to follow her formal training… 

 

But she can’t, not entirely, not this time.

 

Archadis, not so much who he is but what he is, changes things.

 

“Strongarm.”

 

The fembot refocuses.

 

It is Jazz.

 

“What do you say?” He asks.

 

“M…Me?” Strongarm struggles to get the simple word out.

 

“Yeah. You’re in charge here, ain’t ya? This is your call. We gonna let him loose for a bit?”

 

Strongarm looks between Jazz and Archadis, studying them, analyzing them and their situation.

 

On one hand, Archadis cannot be trusted. He could bolt the second they let him loose. They probably wouldn’t be able to find him again if he ran off, and everyone knows it.

 

Or, if he’s gained his second wind, could resume his assault. Fracture wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight, and unless the minicons are able to pull off another sneak attack, would be taken out easily. That would leave Strongarm and Jazz, and both had difficulties holding their own against Archadis.

 

If another fight were to break out the second the cuffs come off, Strongarm has no doubt in her mind that Archadis would win.

 

Aside from all of that, though, Archadis’ experience is invaluable. He could help them, and they would survive.

 

Strongarm has to risk it, right?

 

She holds her helm in her servos and groans.

 

Why can’t Bumblebee be here?

 

She feels her digits curl into her faceplate as her frustration mounts.

 

No, you are more than capable of handling things on your own! The Lieutenant trusts you to make your own decisions and to do what is best for the team!

 

While these mechs aren’t her “team”, she is still responsible for them.

 

Which makes her decision, as hard as it was for her to make, a little easier to stomach.

 

“Let him transform.”

 

Jazz’s smile alters. One wouldn’t notice unless they were paying close attention. It grew by the tiniest margin. Strongarm would say, if she could, that Jazz is proud of her, but she isn’t certain.

 

“Okay,” the spy mech says. He turns to Archadis and unlocks their cuffs. “Just so you know, these are going back on once we’re out of here and preferably somewhere drier.”

 

“Unfortunately, I figured that,” Archadis sneers, flexing his talons after he’s free. He steps back and transforms into the giant reptile-bird-thing that is his altmode. “Now then, if you will be considerate enough to move out of the way so that I may go outside?”

 

“How is that going to help the rest of us?” Strongarm asks.

 

Red bestial optics narrow.

 

“You will find out soon enough. Now please, do you mind?”

 

Uncertainty clouds her spark, but Strongarm knows that they’ve wasted enough time already. She steps aside, giving Archadis a direct line to outside. Out in the storm, but also an out to freedom.

 

Archadis walks past the mecha, so light on his feet that he leaves no marks behind, and if there was the sound of footsteps, they are too quiet to be heard. It sparks unease in Strongarm.

 

The perfect ambush.

 

Nobody would hear him coming.

 

Yet, Strongarm and her companions sensed him.

 

Were they just that on edge?

 

Or did Archadis let a part of himself go on purpose?

 

Maybe it’s more fun for him if his targets know that something is coming, as opposed to leaving them completely unaware.

 

Strongarm has dealt with hunters before. Fracture, for instance. However, they aren’t like Archadis. They aren’t true beasts like a Predacon.

 

“Oh Cybertronians!” An elegant yet guttural sing-songy voice calls out.

 

Snapped out of her thoughts, Strongarm looks up to see that Archadis is hanging upside down in the rain and wind, the only visible parts of his body being his head and neck.

 

“I am not waiting a moment longer. Either you move or I leave.”

 

Strongarm still doesn’t know how Archadis is planning on getting them out of here, but she does understand that asking him is futile, as is standing around debating the correctness of her choice.

 

“We’re coming.”

 

She is the first to approach.

 

At the entrance, Archadis is being pelted on nearly all sides by rough waters. How he’s holding on is anyone’s guess.

 

Why his optics glint anxiously, Strongarm can only imagine.

 

“Do me a favor,” Archadis says.

 

“What?” Strongarm asks.

 

“Don’t shoot me while I’m saving your wheelbound hides.”

 

In a flash, his jaws are around Strongarm’s shoulder, clamped tight. In a moment of panic, the fembot reaches for the jaws in an attempt to pry them off. She hears a grunt, but the Predacon doesn’t let go, not immediately. She is dragged out into the storm and thrown over, back in a loop. She lands on the ground, hard, mud and melted vegetation spraying out around her.

 

“Ow,” Strongarm mutters, somehow able to hear her own voice over the storm. She pushes herself to her knees, ignoring the warnings her systems supply to her of damages.

 

Of course she’s damaged, why wouldn’t she be?

 

Strongarm is well aware of the state of her frame, among other things.

 

Through the deluge, she can just make out Archadis’ tail looped through and wrapped around a thick root raised from the Earth, holding himself in place while he extricates the others.

 

Next comes Fracture, immediately followed by Jazz.

 

Archadis propels himself backward, and doesn’t let go of his anchor until he is safe from falling over, into the rapids.

 

That would be a major inconvenience for Strongarm and her group if they had to save their savior who was also their assaulter not too long ago.

 

Who might still be, if given the chance.

 

Archadis trudges past Jazz and Fracture, and Strongarm as well, though not without a sidelong glance. It reads as a challenge of sorts.

 

I’m not stopping. If you want me, you have to keep up.

 

Expression set and determined, Strongarm nods.

 

Archadis doesn’t react. He turns away and keeps moving.

 

Strongarm gets to her pedes. She is about to follow, but looks over her shoulder first. She sees Jazz lift Fracture’s left arm, his good arm, and place it over his shoulders.

 

Fracture mustn’t have enough energy left to withstand the weather by himself.

 

On impulse, Strongarm joins them. She takes Fracture’s bad arm and drapes it across her shoulders. She doesn’t like how limp it feels in her grasp, but worrying about it now won’t change anything.

 

“I can handle Fracture myself, you know,” Jazz says.

 

“I know,” Strongarm replies, and she leaves it at that. She knows Jazz will understand.

 

With Fracture settled in their combined hold, Strongarm and Jazz follow the retreating back of Archadis’ bipedal form farther into the jungle. To safety, they hope, and not a trap.

Notes:

part 2 of Revelations will be next!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Beyond Our Badges