Chapter Text
Pain was the only certainty that remained.
D-16 no longer knew where his frame ended and where pure agony began. His circuits screamed at frequencies no Cybertronian should be able to process. Superheated energon lines burned from within, his internal components rearranging themselves in impossible patterns as the reality around him shattered like broken glass.
The last thing he saw of his world was the indifferent face of Sentinel Prime through the glass of the containment chamber. Those golden optics, cold as the vacuum of space, watching him as if he were just another number in a report. Another test. Another disposable miner from caste D sacrificed on the altar of scientific progress.
Before that, there had been the descent.
D-16 remembered every moment with painful clarity.
The High Guard servants grabbing his arms as he left his mining shift, raw energon still staining his plates. No explanation. No chance to resist. Just brutal dragging through the corridors of Iacon he'd never seen before, climbing levels miners should never access.
The underground chambers were clinical. Sterilized. Walls of living metal pulsing with contained energy, scientific equipment he could barely comprehend lined up in orderly rows. And at the center, the containment chamber. Cylindrical, transparent, surrounded by rings of technology that hummed at frequencies that made his spark pulse erratically.
"Designator D-16, mining caste, production line forty-seven," the voice of one of the High Guard scientists was monotonous, recording facts as if D-16 were a piece of equipment being cataloged. "Weight: 1.2 land tons. Height: 4.8 meters. Spark: stable class three. No modifications. Perfect for initial testing."
"Security protocols?" another scientist asked, not even looking at D-16 as he adjusted holographic controls.
"Unnecessary. The test unit is disposable. Population census indicates a surplus of forty-two Class D miners in sector eight. The loss of one unit will not affect productivity."
Disposable.
The word echoed through the D-16 processor like a death sentence.
He was just disposable.
He tried to speak, tried to protest, but an energy containment field already enveloped him. His servants were pulled aside, legs locked in position, his entire frame immobilized as he was levitated into the chamber.
Then Sentinel Prime arrived.
The leader of Cybertron was everything the propaganda proclaimed. Golden and gleaming, each armor plate polished to perfection. Tall and imposing, his presence filled the space with undeniable authority. But it was his optics that D-16 would never forget. Shimmering blue and gold like the rest of him, but empty. Cold. Looking right through D-16 as if he were transparent.
"Status of the dimensional jump device," Sentinel didn't ask. He commanded.
"Final calibrations complete, Sentinel Prime. Coordinates established for industrial sector sixteen. We should have a transfer window of approximately 0.3 nanoclicks."
"Risk of catastrophic failure?"
"Sixty-eight percent in the simulations. But with a disposable test unit, the loss is acceptable."
Sentinel nodded as if they were discussing energon production levels, not the life of a sentient being. "Proceed."
D-16 wanted to scream. He wanted to beg. He wanted to do anything but stand there, trapped and defenseless, while scientists activated equipment that could destroy him at a molecular level.
But he was caste D. Designator 16. Built to obey. Programmed to serve. Miners had no rights, no voice, no value beyond their work.
Then he stood still while the rings around the chamber began to rotate.
At first it was just a hum, low and growing. Then light, bright blue and blinding, filling the chamber until D-16 could see nothing but pure radiance. His sensors screamed warnings, his systems trying to process energy levels that shouldn't exist in such a confined space.
And then the pain began.
Not physical pain, not entirely. It was as if every atom of his being was being separated, examined, cataloged, and incorrectly reassembled. His spark pulsed wildly, his chamber cracking under exponentially increasing pressure. Energon lines overheated, transmission fluid boiling within them. Armor plates began to crack, tiny fissures spreading like cobwebs.
Through the agony, D-16 heard distant voices. Alarms blaring. Someone yelling about power overload. Another talking about containment failing.
But it was too late to stop.
The reality surrounding D-16 began to unravel. The chamber walls fragmented into pixels of impossible light. The scientists' faces stretched and distorted like reflections in liquid metal. Even Sentinel Prime, observing with its empty optics, seemed to dissolve into particles of corrupted data.
And then came the void.
Not darkness. True emptiness. The complete and utter absence of everything. No light, no sound, no gravity, no time. Just D-16 and the horrifying sensation of being stretched through dimensions your mind was never designed to comprehend.
He didn't know if he was screaming. He didn't know if he still had vocal processors to scream. He didn't know if he still existed as something recognizable or if he had become just fragmented consciousness scattered across the infinite void.
But his spark persisted. That fundamental core of his being, the essence that made him who he was, refused to be extinguished.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the void ended.
D-16 was falling.
Not through space, but through dense, humid air that smelled of things he had never experienced before. Organics. Decomposition. Chemical pollution. All so alien that his atmospheric filters almost refused to process it.
His small frame spun uncontrollably, navigation systems completely offline. He saw flashes of impossible blue sky, primitive structures of concrete and steel, green vegetation that shouldn't exist on a metallic planet.
And then the impact.
D-16 crashed into solid concrete with enough force that everything in its body seemed to crack simultaneously. The sound was horrific, metal smashing against stone, internal components shifting, fluids leaking from ruptured lines.
He lay where he fell, completely unable to move. Every servo, every joint, every circuit was screaming in agony. His optics blinked erratically, his vision fragmented into bits of corrupted code that barely made sense. Alerts filled his HUD in a ceaseless cascade:
CRITICAL DAMAGE: SPARK COMPARTMENT
STRUCTURAL FAULT: DORSAL SECTOR REINFORCEMENT PLATES
LEAK: PRIMARY ENERGON LINES
MOVEMENT: LEFT SERVANT
CRACK: RIGHT OPTICIAN
ESTIMATED SURVIVAL TIME WITHOUT REPAIR: 4.2 HOURS
But he was alive. By some obscure miracle, he was still online.
D-16 forced its optical systems to focus. Sky. Blue like refined, yet organic, natural energon, with white clouds drifting slowly. A yellow sun that burned differently from the distant sun of Cybertron, hotter, closer. Everything wrong. Everything alien. Everything impossible.
Earth. It had to be Earth. The planet the High Guard was secretly studying, the primitive world full of organic beings that had barely discovered basic space travel. But how? The device should have sent him to another sector of Cybertron, not another planet. Not another...
Another universe.
The realization hit like a second shock. The variables in the calculations he'd seen on the monitors before the transfer. The impossible probabilities. This wasn't just a spatial leap. It was a dimensional leap.
And he had been launched through the membrane between realities.
D-16 tried to laugh, but only managed to produce broken static sounds.
Of course.
Of course, the first attempt would send the test subject to an entirely different universe. Of course, it would be the disposable one, sufficient for this insane experiment.
At least now he knew. Sentinel and the High Guard never intended to retrieve him. This wasn't a survival test they expected. It was permanent disposal with scientific data as a secondary benefit.
A distant sound cut through his bitter thoughts.
Engines.
Multiple.
Approaching quickly.
Survival instinct, honed by years of avoiding violent supervisors in the mines and faulty equipment that didn't forgive mistakes, took over. D-16 ignored the agonizing protests of its damaged systems and crawled toward the nearest wreckage.
Every inch was torture. His servants left trails of energon in the cracked concrete. Armor plates came loose completely, falling with metallic sounds as he moved. But he persisted, reaching what had once been some kind of human edifice, now reduced to rubble.
Cracked concrete walls exposed twisted metal beams. Fallen slabs created narrow spaces. D-16 squeezed into a crevice between two sections of collapsed wall, making itself as small as possible. Its smaller frame, built to reach narrow shafts in the mines, finally had the advantage.
The sound of the engines grew louder. Not like the silent, efficient antigravity transports of Cybertron. These were noisy, roaring with the combustion of fossil fuels. Primitive. But there was something more. Something that made their energy sensors tingle even through their damaged state.
Cybertonian signatures.
D-16 peered through a crack in the rubble and felt its spark almost stop.
Five vehicles emerge from the potholed road. A blue and red Peterbilt truck with decorative flame details along the cab and chassis. A bright yellow Chevrolet Corvette with black racing stripes. A massive, military green Oshkosh Defense M-ATV loaded with tactical gear. A dark green Chevrolet Corvette with aggressive black accents. And above them, maintaining low formation, a sleek black and blue Sikorsky Raider helicopter.
But they weren't vehicles. Or rather, they weren't just vehicles.
D-16 could sense it through his damaged sensors. The familiar pulse of Cybertronian sparks, the energetic resonance that only his species produced. The way the air around them distorted slightly with active holographic camouflage fields. These were his. Transformers. Here, on this alien world, so absurdly far from home.
The train slowed down until it stopped about fifty meters from its position. For a long, tense moment, nothing happened. Only the sound of idling engines and the wind whistling through the urban wreckage, carrying smells of rusted metal and pulverized concrete.
Then the truck started to change.
D-16 watched, simultaneously fascinated and terrified, as the transformation unfolded. He had seen transformations before, of course. In the upper levels of Iacon, members of the privileged castes displayed their alternate forms with casual pride. Elite guards demonstrated their capabilities in public ceremonies. Even some mine supervisors possessed basic transformation gears.
But I had never seen anything like it before.
The transformation was pure art. Every movement precise like atomic timing, each panel sliding into position with perfect efficiency. The truck's engine split and reconfigured into a massive torso, internal components redistributing themselves in patterns that defied the physics known to D-16. Tires integrated into the legs with transitions so fluid they seemed liquid. Doors and fenders folded into multi-layered shoulder plates. The cab split and reformed into an armored chest with intricate details.
In less than three seconds, where there had been a truck, there was now a warrior that made the D-16 feel like a sparkling, newly forged machine.
It was colossal. Easily nine meters tall, perhaps more, every inch purposefully built for war. Its chassis was a masterpiece of military engineering, armor plates overlapping in patterns that maximized protection while maintaining complete mobility. The decorative flames of its vehicular mode extended across its shoulders and chest in vibrant red and blue against primary silver metal, creating a visual effect that was simultaneously beautiful and intimidating.
Weaponry was integrated into every surface. D-16 could identify at least two weapon systems in its forearms, holsters for energy blades on its back, and what appeared to be projectile launchers integrated into its shoulders. This was no builder or worker. It was a pure warrior, every aspect of its design optimized for combat.
But it was its optics that held D-16 completely in place.
Blue. A deep, luminous blue that seemed to contain entire oceans of experience and pain. Optics that had seen too much, suffered too much, lost too much. There was wisdom in them, and sadness, and something else that D-16 couldn't name. Something that made his spark pulse erratically just from being under that gaze.
The others transformed in rapid succession, each transformation as impressive as the first.
The yellow Camaro (I thought it was the same model line as the Cross...) revealed a smaller but still formidable scout. Its frame was built for speed and agility, lighter armor plates allowing for greater mobility. But what immediately caught D-16's attention was what was missing: where the vocal cords should have been, there was only an empty opening, exposed circuitry surrounding what appeared to be a plasma cannon integrated directly into its throat. Old battle, D-16 identified. Permanent damage converted into weaponry.
The massive military vehicle transformed into a soldier that made the scout look small. Hound, some part of the D-16's processor registered through fragments of transmissions it picked up. He was pure brute force, each plate of armor thick and functional rather than elegant. Heavy weaponry covered his body: rotary machine guns integrated into both arms, missile launchers on his shoulders, what appeared to be combat blades strapped to his chest. This was a heavy infantry soldier, built to hold lines and absorb punishment.
The green Corvette transformed into an elite sniper that exuded deadly precision. Crosshairs, the D-16 picked up from another transmission. Its frame was slimmer, built for quick movement and tactical positioning. But what dominated were the rifles: two long-range precision rifles integrated into its forearms, capable of independent rotation and multi-axis adjustment. Its optics had focused, analytical quality, constantly scanning and assessing threats.
The helicopter revealed a warrior whose transformation still left the main rotors visible, elegantly folded into blades on his back. Drift, identified D-16. His design was different from the others, more refined, almost artistic. Where the others were purely functional, Drift had aesthetic elements: smooth lines in his armor, proportions that suggested speed and grace. And on his back, besides the rotors, D-16 could see sheaths for what had to be energy swords.
Five warriors.
Five Autobots, some distant part of D-16's processor identified through fragments of data that it shouldn't have but did. Knowledge that came from where? From the dimensional jump? From some information leak between universes?
It didn't matter.
What mattered was that they were clearly military. Clearly dangerous. And clearly looking for something.
The blue leader stepped forward, his massive minions leaving impressions on the soft concrete. Panels on his forearm lit up, projecting holograms of data that mapped the environment in three-dimensional detail. D-16 saw representations of the terrain, thermal energy readings, seismic scans of recent impacts.
Then those blue optics turned directly toward their hiding place.
Not approximately.
Not usually in that direction. Exactly where D-16 was hiding, as if the leader could see through two tons of concrete and steel.
"I detected a Cybertonian energy signature," the voice was deep and resonant, carrying a natural authority that seemed a fundamental part of his being. He didn't need to shout or threaten. The simple act of speaking commanded absolute attention. "Emerging. Unstable. Single source, approximately forty-seven meters northeast, two meters below surface level."
The yellow scout emitted a rapid series of beeps and electronic clicks that D-16 couldn't fully decipher, but the tone was clearly questioning. Worried, perhaps.
"No, Bumblebee. It's not Decepticon," the leader replied, his voice now sharper. "The signature is... wrong. It doesn't have Decepticon code markers. But," he paused, and something in his entire posture changed. It became more rigid. More dangerous. Shoulders broadened, servants closed slightly, weight shifted into a fighting stance. "Too familiar."
D-16 felt his spark pulse erratically. Familiar? How could he be familiar to warriors from another universe?
"Want me to flank you, boss?" Hound asked, his voice hoarse and heavy with an accent that D-16 couldn't identify. The machine guns on his arms were already starting to spin in preparation, barrels rotating slowly as they warmed up.
"Negative, Hound. Maintains southern position and coverage. Drift, altitude, and air cover."
The helicopter turned back in such fluid motion that D-16 almost lost control, rapidly gaining altitude until it had a clear firing angle over the entire area. Its weapon systems activated, laser targeting lights painting red dots across the wreckage.
"Crosshairs, with me. Bee, ready to suppress if necessary."
The green sniper nodded, his energy rifles activating with a growing, menacing hum. Bee held his position, but his plasma cannon began to charge, a blue light growing in intensity at the center of his damaged throat.
The leader walked toward the rubble where D-16 was hiding, each step deliberate and measured. Not hurried, but relentless. Inevitable. Crosshairs followed three steps behind and to the left, positioned perfectly to intercept any angled threat, his rifles tracking potential movement.
"Your options are extremely limited," the leader's voice echoed through the wreckage, amplified slightly to ensure it was heard. "You are severely and critically damaged. Alone on an alien planet. No support, no resources, no viable escape routes. In this world, there are only two factions of Cybertronians. Autobots," he paused meaningfully, "and Decepticons. If you are the latter, your existence ends in the next thirty seconds, executed by me personally. If you are the former, or something else, revealing yourself immediately may save your life. You have ten seconds to decide. Choose wisely."
D-16 felt its spark pulse erratically, each painful thud against the cracked compartment. Every survival protocol he possessed, every instinct honed by years in the mines avoiding danger, screamed at him to stay quiet, hidden, invisible.
But cold logic also processed facts. He was dying. His self-repair systems were basic, designed for minor damage from mining work, not catastrophic dimensional trauma. Without proper medical intervention, he would go into terminal failure within hours. And these were Autobots. The faction of heroes, according to the rare stories that occasionally reached the mines through whispers from workers who had served on higher levels.
They fought for freedom. For justice. For the protection of the weak.
They were not like Sentinel. They were not like the High Guard who had used him as a disposable guinea pig.
Or so he desperately hoped.
With servos trembling from both structural damage and genuine fear, D-16 began to force himself out of hiding. Each movement was multiplied agony. Damaged circuits sent pain signals throughout his entire frame. Transmission fluid dripped from cracks in his torso, leaving small puddles on the concrete. His servos left energon marks as he crawled inch by inch toward the open area.
He managed to reach a clear space. He tried to stand, to force a dignity he didn't feel. His servants failed completely. He fell heavily to his knees, the impact darkening his vision at the edges as more damage alerts filled his HUD.
He forced his optics to focus on the leader, raising his head even when every circuit screamed for him to cower and protect himself.
And he saw the exact moment when recognition hit.
Those blue eyes widened in genuine shock. The warrior's massive frame froze completely, each servant freezing in place as if some emergency command had been activated. For a split second, the leader seemed utterly unable to process what he was seeing.
Then the paralysis broke and transformed into pure fury.
So fast that D-16 barely processed the movement, the leader drew an energy blade from his back. The weapon came alive with a roar of pure energy, a deadly blue light illuminating the surrounding wreckage like a small sun. The leader lunged forward, closing the distance in two steps of his long legs, the blade raised for a decapitation strike.
"MEGATRON!"
The name came out as a roar, laden with so much concentrated hatred and ancient pain that D-16 felt it physically. Waves of sound crashed through him, making his armor plates vibrate. He tried to retreat, tried to raise servants in a desperate gesture of surrender, but his damaged systems didn't respond quickly enough.
The blade descended in a deadly arc.
It was the end for him, without a doubt.
"EXCELLENT, PLEASE!"
Crosshairs was suddenly there, moving with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a frame of his size. Their rifles crossed above D-16's head in desperate lock-on. Metal clashed against metal with a rumble that echoed through the wreckage like a war bell, the impact creating a shockwave that cracked concrete around them.
Sparks exploded from the point of contact, the force of a Prime behind the blow causing Crosshairs' servants to tremble violently in an effort to maintain their block.
"Get out of the way, Crosshairs," Optimus growled, and D-16 realized that was the leader's name. His voice was distorted by something wild and wounded, the audio processing clearly struggling with harmonics of pure emotion. "NOW."
"Look at him!" Crosshairs yelled back, maintaining the block even as his knees began to buckle under the pressure. "Really look, Optimus! Something's wrong! This isn't right!"
"What's wrong," Optimus pressed harder on the blade, causing Crosshairs to slide back a few inches, "is that Megatron is alive and standing before me, and you're preventing me from finishing what I should have finished years ago when I had the chance!"
"I'm not Megatron!" D-16 managed to shout, his voice coming out broken and distorted from extensive damage to his vocal processors. Corrupting static cut through every word. "I don't know who this is! My designator is D-16, mining caste, production line forty-seven of Iacon! I don't know where I am, I don't know how I got here, I just want to go home! Please!"
The silence that followed was as thick as molten metal.
Optimus didn't lower his blade, but he didn't press the attack either. Those optics, still gleaming with deadly rage that seemed to burn physically, finally truly focused on D-16.
And D-16 saw the moment when doubt began to seep in through the rage.
Optimus's optics narrowed, scanning D-16 with almost painful intensity. D-16 could feel the sensors, like an electrical tingling through his circuits, examining every inch of him.
"Bee," Optimus said, his voice still tense but more controlled, more like a commander and less like a berserker on the verge of homicidal rage. "Complete in-depth analysis. Top priority. Now."
The yellow scout approached cautiously, its cannon still loaded but pointed downwards in a ready position rather than an active threat. It circled D-16 slowly, its active sensors creating a network of blue light scanning every angle.
D-16 felt the scans as an invasion, an intense tingling in his circuits that was almost painful. His systems tried to resist automatically, basic privacy protocols attempting to block deep access, but he suppressed them manually. If this convinced them not to kill him, the invasion would be worth it.
Bee emitted a long series of beeps, clicks, electronic sounds, and what appeared to be fragments of old radio transmissions, all combined into a complex language that D-16 could not fully decipher.
But the other Autobots clearly could.
Optimus listened, his expression gradually becoming more confused rather than angry. Crosshairs maintained the blockade, but his posture relaxed slightly. Hound, still in the southern position, let his machine guns reduce their rotational speed.
"Translate," Optimus ordered, and D-16 realized the command was for his benefit, not the other Autobots'.
Hound, his hoarse voice sounding genuinely incredulous, began. "Dimension of origin: unknown, not corresponding to any universe cataloged in our databases. Spark patterns: consistent with universal variant theory proposed by Perceptor before," he paused briefly, "before the fall of Cybertron. Complete absence of installed transformation protocols, no corresponding gear, no supporting hardware. Extensive damage perfectly consistent with forced quantum transfer across a dimensional membrane. And," he paused significantly, "no detectable record of Decepticon programming. No Decepticon code signature. No Decepticon military protocol. It's as if," Hound clearly struggled with the concept, "it's as if he was never exposed to any Decepticon technology or ideology. As if Decepticons never existed in his universe of origin."
The silence was absolute.
Optimus finally lowered his blade. He didn't sheath it, he didn't deactivate it, but lowered it to a neutral position. His optics remained fixed on D-16 with an intensity that made the miner want to shrink back.
"D-16," Optimus finally said, testing the name as if it were a weapon that could explode on his servants. His voice was lower now, controlled with visible effort. "You said mining caste."
"Yes," D-16 confirmed, forcing words through damaged vocal processors that protested every syllable. "Caste D. Designator sixteen. I work, I used to work, in the energon mines beneath sector eight of Iacon. Deep veins, levels others can't reach because of my size. Until," he hesitated, the memory of the lab still too fresh, "until the High Guard took me. They said I was perfect for a test. They said they needed someone... disposable."
The last word came out as a bitter whisper.
Crosshairs retreated slowly, lowering his rifles but not sheathing them. His expression was complex, a mixture of lingering distrust and something that might be reluctant sympathy. "High Guard," he repeated. "Not Decepticons? Not Megatron?"
"There are no Decepticons in my world," D-16 said, genuine confusion coloring his words. "There is no war. Only order. Sentinel Prime rules absolutely. The High Guard enforces its laws. The castes are absolute and immutable since creation. Some Cybertronians are built to lead, others to serve in positions of privilege, others," he looked at his broken servants, energon still slowly dripping, "to die slowly in the depths extracting energon that we will never see processed or use ourselves."
Optimus took a step back as if he had been physically struck. His optics widened even further, processing the implications. "Your Sentinel Prime," he said carefully. "Describe him."
"Strong. Golden from head to toe. Charismatic when speaking publicly. Perfect in every way," D-16 recited official descriptions automatically, words he had heard a thousand times in mandatory broadcasts. "The savior of Cybertron. The one who maintains order and peace. The one who ensures that every Cybertronian serves their assigned function for the greater good. At least," his voice dropped to a bitter whisper, "that's what they tell us in the broadcasts we're forced to watch at the end of each work shift."
"Primus," Hound murmured, his hoarse voice carrying something like horror. "Your world sounds almost worse than ours during the worst of the war."
"Interesting," Optimus said, and there was something dangerously dark in his tone now. Not directed at D-16, but at something distant. "Because in my universe, Sentinel Prime died a long time ago. Cycles before the war even properly began. Betrayed and executed by Megatron personally when he was still a gladiator on Kaon." A heavy pause. "It was one of the first atrocities that paved the way for total war. The public assassination of a Prime."
D-16 processed this slowly through its damaged systems, its processors struggling to reconcile conflicting information. In its world, Sentinel was absolute law, immortal and untouchable. In this universe, it had been dead for eons. Executed by the servants of a version of itself that didn't exist in its reality.
How many other things were fundamentally different between the universes?
"This Megatron," D-16 forced the words through vocal processors that were beginning to completely fail, static increasing. "You said he was D-16 once. Like me. What... what happened? How does someone like me become something that frightens warriors like you?"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush.
Optimus didn't answer immediately. His optics drifted, looking through D-16 at something distant and painful. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with the weight of ages. "Many things. Injustice. Oppression. Pain that turned into anger. Anger that turned into hatred. And," he paused, something breaking in his voice, "choices we both made. Choices that can't be undone, no matter how much we wish it."
Before D-16 could ask any more questions, its systems finally reached a critical limit. Emergency alerts exploded across its HUD in a cascading red;
IMMINENT FAILURE: ALL SYSTEMS
ENERGON RESERVES: 3%
SPARK COMPARTMENT: CONTAINMENT FAILING
ESTIMATED SURVIVAL TIME: 47 MINUTES
His legs gave way completely. He fell forward, but this time Optimus was there. Massive Servos caught D-16 before he hit the concrete, holding him with surprising care for something of that size and strength.
"Bee, survival estimate without immediate medical intervention," Optimus ordered, his voice returning to clear military command.
More beeps, these sounding urgent and somber.
"Forty-seven minutes," Hound translated quietly. "Maybe less if it keeps leaking energon at this rate. Spark compartment is critically faulty. Without extensive repairs, it will go into permanent shutdown."
Optimus stood motionless for a long moment, still holding D-16 as if it weighed nothing. D-16 could feel the Prime's processors working, calculating risks, weighing options, processing probabilities.
Finally, those blue eyes met his again. And this time, D-16 saw something different. Not trust, not yet. But not pure hatred either. Something more complex. More painful.
"If this is one of Megatron's tricks," Optimus said, each word precise and laden with deadly menace, "if this is some new scheme of his, some form of psychological infiltration designed to exploit our history, know that the death you will meet will be far, far slower and more painful than anything you've experienced in the mines. I will personally ensure that."
D-16 managed a weak nod, even though the slight movement caused his vision to darken dangerously at the edges.
"But," Optimus continued, his voice softening by a microscopic fraction, "if you truly are what you appear to be, if you truly are an innocent victim hurled across dimensions by a cruel experiment, then you deserve the same options as any lost and injured Cybertronian. Medical treatment. Temporary shelter. And the opportunity to return home, if such a thing is possible."
He turned to the other Autobots, his voice returning to command. "Crosshairs, Hound, prepare him for immediate transport. Bee, establish a defensive perimeter during loading. Drift, maintain air cover and scan for potential threats until we return to base. Movement in two minutes."
"Boss, you can't be serious," Drift replied through the comm, his voice coming from above where he held his position. "It's Megatron! Smaller, more pathetic, seemingly innocent, but he still has his face, his voice, his energy signature!"
"That's an order, Drift," Optimus said with absolute certainty.
"Shitty order!" Drift's outburst sounded genuinely furious, a rare emotion for the normally calm warrior. "How many of us did he kill? How many friends, how many allies, how many innocents—"
"I KNOW HOW MANY!" Optimus's roar cut through all the comms like thunder, making D-16 shudder in the Prime's arms. "I carried every body personally! I spoke at every funeral we managed to hold! I watched our entire species burn for ages because of the war between him and me! I. KNOW."
Optimus's breathing was heavy now, cooling systems working overtime, steam billowing from vents on his shoulders. When he continued, his voice was lower but no less intense.
"And that's exactly why I can't, I won't, execute someone who might be completely innocent just because they have his face. Not without absolute certainty. Not without real evidence of hostile intent. Because if I do that," he looked directly at D-16, and there was ancient pain in those optics, "then I become exactly what Megatron always said I was. A tyrant willing to sacrifice innocents for my own peace of mind."
Absolute silence.
Then, reluctantly, Drift replied, "Affirmative. Holding position and providing cover."
Crosshairs and Hound approached D-16, moving with the caution of someone defusing volatile explosives. Crosshairs studied him with sharp, analytical optics, scanning every inch. "Can you move on your own somehow?"
"Bad," D-16 admitted, his voice now little more than a static whisper. "My legs... they don't respond anymore."
"Then this is going to hurt significantly," Crosshairs said, something that could have been a reluctant apology in his tone. "My apologies in advance."
Before D-16 could ask what he meant, Crosshairs lifted him from Optimus's arms in a surprisingly smooth motion. But smooth was relative. The change in position made every damaged circuit in D-16 scream in unified protest. Loose armor plates shifted, ruptured energon lines leaked more, and something in his chest made a horrible grinding sound.
D-16 couldn't contain the agonizing scream that came out as distorted static.
"Silence," Crosshairs said, but not without genuine gentleness beneath the gruff tone. "Conserve your energy. Your repair systems will need every joule you have left to keep you online until we get to base. Talking is wasting resources you can't afford to lose."
D-16 nodded weakly, biting back any other sound.
Optimus had already transformed back into his truck mode, the reverse transformation as fluid and quick as the original. The cab opened, revealing a modified cargo compartment that clearly wasn't part of standard Peterbilt design.
It wasn't designed for comfort, D-16 realized immediately. It was pure emergency space for transporting injured Autobots when self-transformation wasn't an option. Reinforced metal walls, energy containment systems to stabilize damaged passengers, emergency energon lines ready for quick connection.
There were stories etched into these walls. Scratch marks where desperate servants had clung. Splashes of ancient energon in dozens of different shades that were never fully removed, each representing a different wound, a different battle, a different Autobot carried to the brink of extinction. Burn marks from energy weapons. Impact dents.
This compartment had seen a lot of use.
Much suffering.
Crosshairs carefully placed D-16 inside, a stark contrast to his earlier verbal hostility. He ensured D-16 was positioned to minimize stress on damaged components and adjusted supports to keep the frame stable during transport.
"Hound will monitor your vital signs during transport through Optimus's internal systems," Crosshairs explained as he worked. "If you start to go into complete terminal failure, he'll alert us and we'll stop for emergency intervention. Otherwise," he hesitated, his optics meeting those of D-16 briefly, "try not to die. Optimus... he already carries too many ghosts. Don't add your face to them."
Then the cockpit closed, and D-16 was alone in the intimate darkness with only the sound of its own spark failing, pulsing irregularly and weakly against the cracked compartment.
Optimus's engine roared to life with a deep rumble, vibrations transmitting through every surface of the compartment. D-16 felt the truck begin to move, accelerating smoothly but still sending waves of pain through his frame.
He tried to focus on something, anything besides the agony that threatened to completely consume his processors.
Optimus's voice came through internal speakers, clear as if Prime were in the compartment with him. Intimate. "Your world. Where you said there is no war, only caste order. Cybertron still lives?"
D-16 could barely form words through vocal processors that were 80% offline. "Yes. Alive. Functioning at... maximum efficiency."
But not free.
Never free.
"Please explain in more detail. I need to understand."
D-16 didn't have the energy to question why Optimus wanted to know. Maybe it was a test, looking for inconsistencies in history. Maybe genuine curiosity about a universe where war never happened. It didn't matter. He would answer if it increased his chances of survival.
"Sentinel Prime rules absolutely everything," D-16 began, each word an effort. "The High Guard enforces its laws without question or mercy. Castes determine function from the moment of creation. There is no mobility, no choice, no escape. Transformation is a privilege granted only to the upper castes, not a universal right. Those like me," he coughed, transmission fluid rising through his energetic throat, "exist only to serve assigned functions. To mine energon that we will never touch except in raw form. To work until our frames fail from wear and tear. Then we are recycled, our parts reused, our memories erased. As if we had never existed."
Optimus's silence was long and heavy. When he spoke again, there was something very somber in his tone. "Your Sentinel Prime. Describe your physical appearance in more detail."
"Strong. Imposing. Completely golden, each plate polished to a gleam. Charismatic when speaking on public broadcasts. Perfect in every measurable way," D-16 recited. "The savior of Cybertron, according to official propaganda. The one who maintains order and peace after what they call the Age of Chaos. The one who established a caste system to ensure that every Cybertronian serves the greater good in their appropriate role. At least," his voice fell even lower, bitter, "that's what we're repeatedly told on the mandatory broadcasts we watch at the end of each shift. Refusal results in punishment. Questioning results in," he hesitated, "permanent removal."
"Interesting and disturbing," Optimus said, his voice laden with implications that D-16 couldn't fully decipher. "Because in my universe, Sentinel Prime died a long time ago. Ages before the war even properly began. Betrayed and publicly executed by Megatron when he was still known as Kaon's gladiator, before adopting a war title."
Optimus paused, then continued with something that sounded almost like a confession. "It was one of the first true atrocities that paved the way for total war. The brutal and public murder of a Prime in a packed arena. Megatron ripped out his spark with his bare hands while thousands watched and shouted in approval. It was," another pause, "the point of no return for many of us."
D-16 processed this through its damaged systems, its processors struggling. In its world, Sentinel was immortal, untouchable, a god among machines. In this universe, it had been dead for ages, publicly executed in a display of violence.
And it was executed by a version of himself. By D-16, who became Megatron.
"What did he do?" D-16 asked, needing to understand. "This other me. What did he do to become someone capable of killing a Prime?"
"Many things. All complicated. All painful to remember," Optimus replied. Then, so quietly that D-16 barely heard over the engine noise, "He dreamed of a better Cybertron. Just like you apparently dream. But his dreams curdled into nightmares when the world shattered hopes repeatedly. And when they offered me the Matrix of Leadership instead of him, when I became Prime instead of him despite him having fought harder, suffered more, sacrificed more..." Optimus's voice broke slightly. "Something broke in him permanently. The D-16 I knew, whom I called brother, died that day. And Megatron was born from his ashes and fury."
D-16 felt each word like a physical blow. There was so much pain in Optimus's voice. So much old, unhealed regret.
"I... regret it," D-16 whispered. "For what he did. For what this version of me became and destroyed."
"Don't apologize for crimes you didn't commit in a universe that isn't yours," Optimus said firmly. "But understand deeply why my team reacts to you the way it does. Why some want your immediate execution without trial. Megatron cost us everything we had. Our entire world. Our species reduced to a handful. Our future transformed into perpetual survival. To see your face again, even knowing intellectually that you are not him, even with all the evidence suggesting innocence..." he paused. "It hurts in ways you can't yet comprehend."
"I understand," D-16 said, and he truly did understand. "If the situation were reversed, if someone with a Sentinel face appeared in my world, I... I don't know if I could be as compassionate as you are being."
"Compassionate," Optimus repeated the word as if testing its taste. "No. This isn't compassion yet. This is... cautious pragmatism. Compassion will come if you prove you deserve it. If you survive long enough for such proof."
They drove in silence for a time that D-16 couldn't measure. Their timing systems were failing along with everything else; time was becoming a fluid and unreliable concept.
He was nearly in forced stasis when he finally felt the truck slow down and stop. The compartment door opened, a bright light forcing his damaged optics to painfully readjust.
Crosshairs was there again, along with Hound this time. Together, they lifted D-16 with the coordination of soldiers who had done this hundreds of times before, knowing exactly how to move the wounded without causing further damage.
D-16 had a vague impression through fading vision of a vast underground complex. Part abandoned military bunker from some ancient human war, part makeshift Cybertronian base. Thick concrete walls reinforced with metal supports clearly Cybertronian in design. Primitive terrestrial equipment extensively modified for alien scale and needs.
There were signs of long-term occupancy. Meticulously organized storage areas. A maintenance station with adapted tools. What appeared to be makeshift rooms. And in the center, a basic but functional medical area with a diagnostic table showing obvious signs of heavy and frequent use.
Crosshairs and Hound carefully placed D-16 on the table with professional precision. Immediately, Hound began connecting emergency energon lines, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he installed temporary bypasses for D-16's failing systems.
The sensation of synthetic energon flowing through his circuits for the first time was like having ice and fire injected simultaneously into his veins. It wasn't like pure Cybertronian energon. It was rougher, less refined, carrying the flavor of elements that shouldn't be there. But it was energy. It was life. It was chance.
"It's going to hurt significantly," Hound warned, his voice hoarse but not without genuine compassion beneath a layer of military pragmatism. "Earth's synthetic ergon isn't the same as pure Cybertronian ergon. Your system will reject approximately 30% of it before adapting. But it will keep you online long enough for actual repairs. Probably."
He was absolutely right. Pain came in a wave that made D-16 arch against restraints that someone had activated, its entire frame convulsing as systems tried to process incompatible energon.
Optimus appeared in his line of sight, looming over the table like a monument of judgment. Those blue optics studied every inch of D-16 with an intensity that was almost physical in its force.
"Your repairs will take many hours on Earth," Optimus said, his voice returning to efficient military command. "Hound will oversee the initial process. Bumblebee will perform repair surgery on your spark compartment, as his servos are more precise for delicate work. Once you are stabilized enough to speak without risk of terminal failure, we will have many questions. Many, many questions that you will answer completely and honestly."
"I'll... answer what I can," D-16 promised, his voice now barely audible even to his own hearing sensors. "I have... no reason to lie. I have nothing... to hide."
"We'll see," was not a reassuring answer. Optimus turned to leave, each movement precise and controlled. Then he paused at the edge of the medical area. Without looking back, he added, "And D-16? If you truly are innocent, if you truly are a victim in all of this without guilt or complicity, then I apologize for nearly executing you without proper trial. That was," he hesitated, clearly unaccustomed to admitting fault, "rash and unworthy of Prime."
He paused, then continued with the weight of ages in each word. "But also understand, and never forget, that trust is a luxury we can no longer afford so easily. Not after all we've lost. Not after all the times trust has been weaponized against us. You will have to earn every fragment of it through actions, not words. And even then," his shoulders slumped slightly, "even then, some of us may never be able to look at your face without seeing a ghost of who you could have been."
Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing through the bunker until they faded into a heavy silence.
D-16 was left alone with Hound and Bumblebee, his pain threatening to consume his consciousness, and with a growing, terrifying realization that he had fallen into something far bigger and more dangerous than any mine on Cybertron.
He had fallen into war. Into generational hatred. Into trauma so deep it barely healed.
And he had the face of the enemy.
As his systems finally succumbed to forced medical stasis, and as Bumblebee began the delicate work of opening his chassis to access the cracked spark compartment, D-16's last coherent thought was about those blue optics.
So full of ancient pain that it seemed like a structural part of Prime.
So familiar in some impossible way, as if some deep part of him had known them for a long time.
As if some version of him, in some other universe, had looked through those optics and seen home.
And then darkness claimed him completely, pulling him into depths of stasis where not even pain could reach him.
For now.
The first thing D-16 noticed upon regaining consciousness was that the pain had changed.
Not gone. Definitely not gone. But transformed from absolute, consuming agony into something more manageable. More like a constant burning sensation instead of an uncontrolled fire consuming every circuit.
The second thing he noticed was the sensation of someone literally inside his chassis.
His emergency systems immediately kicked in, ancient survival protocols screaming invasion, danger, defend yourself now. He tried to move, tried to defend himself, and found he couldn't. Energy restraints glowed pale blue against his wrists, ankles, and across his torso, holding him completely immobilized against the vertical diagnostic table.
Genuine panic flooded his circuits. Memories of the Iacon laboratory, of being trapped and helpless while scientists prepared him for an experiment that could kill him, exploded in his processors.
"Calm down," Hound's voice came from somewhere to his right, hoarse but surprisingly non-threatening. "You're safe here. Relatively, at least. No one will hurt you while you're under Optimus's protection."
D-16 forced his optics to focus, fighting the urge to continue battling restraints. The makeshift medical area was brighter now than in his fragmented memories of arrival. Portable ground lights had been strategically positioned to provide adequate illumination without overwhelming his sensitive Cybertonian optics, fresh from repair.
Hound stood beside an elaborate workstation, monitoring holograms that displayed each D-16 system in intimate and invasive detail. Energon flow graphs, structural integrity readings, spark activity monitoring—everything was laid bare and analyzed.
And Bumblebee was, literally, with his small, precise servos inside D-16's open chest, working on something dangerously close to his spark.
"What—" D-16 began, panic tinging his voice with sharp harmonics.
"Your spark plug compartment was severely cracked," Hound explained calmly, his optics never leaving the monitors where he tracked Bee's every move. "Three major cracks and dozens of micro-fractures spreading like cobwebs. If we hadn't sealed this immediately, you would have gone into complete terminal failure within hours. Bee is finishing the final soldering now."
D-16 forced himself to remain absolutely still, fighting against every instinct that screamed at him to flee. The sensation of alien servants so close to his spark was viscerally terrifying in ways he could barely process. The spark was the center of everything, the fundamental essence of a Cybertronian, the core of who they were. Letting someone touch it required absolute and unconditional trust.
He definitely didn't have any trust in these strangers, no matter how heroic the Autobots supposedly were.
Bumblebee must have sensed his fear through the sensors connected to D-16's body. The scout emitted a series of soft, comforting sounds, melodious despite coming from a plasma cannon instead of normal vocal processors. His servants never stopped their meticulous work, but the tone of their sounds changed to something almost like a lullaby.
"Bee is our best field medic," Hound said, something that might have been a comforting remark in his normally gruff voice. "Small servos, surgical precision, and saintly mechanical patience. If anyone can fix dimensional transfer damage, it's him. You're in for good servos, mini-con."
"Mini-con?" D-16 repeated weakly.
"You're small," Hound said with what might have been a half-smile. "Smaller than any adult Cybertonian I've ever seen except for a few specialized models. Standard height for our species is six to twelve meters. You're what, less than five?"
"Four point eight meters," D-16 confirmed, feeling a familiar sense of shame. In the mines, his small size was both an advantage and a curse. It allowed him to reach veins that others couldn't, but it also marked him as inferior, less than perfect, built wrong from the forge.
"Huh. Really small then," Hound remarked without any particular malice. "Useful for working in tight spaces, I suppose. Less useful for surviving on the battlefield."
Before D-16 could respond, Bumblebee emitted a final series of triumphant beeps. His minions withdrew from D-16's chest, carrying an energy welding tool that still glowed faintly with residual heat.
D-16 looked down and saw its spark compartment for the first time since it had been opened. Bright lines of energetic solder crisscrossed the surface in intricate patterns where fractures had been meticulously sealed. It wasn't pretty work, but it was functional and solid.
"It will leave scars," Hound said, interpreting the direction of D-16's gaze. "Energy welds always do. But your spark is contained and safe now. It won't crack again unless you suffer significant additional trauma."
Armor panels began to slide back into place, sealing access to the compartment. D-16 felt the locking mechanisms engage, restoring basic structural integrity. It wasn't like it was before the dimensional jump. Its chassis was still damaged in dozens of places, plates dented and scratched, servos misaligned, systems operating at reduced capacity.
But he was no longer actively dying. That was a significant improvement.
"How long was I in stasis?" D-16 asked, his voice still carrying static but functioning better than before.
"Six hours of ground time," Hound replied, checking the timers on his displays. "Bee worked on you for four hours straight. Two other automatic repair systems did what they could."
Six o'clock.
Six hours in which he had been completely vulnerable, unconscious, at the mercy of strangers who had every reason to hate him.
And they had chosen to save him instead of eliminating him.
"Why?" the question came out before D-16 could stop it. "Why save me? Why waste medical resources on someone who could be a threat?"
Hound was silent for a moment, his optics finally leaving the monitors to meet D-16's directly. "Because Optimus ordered it. And when Optimus orders, we follow. Even when we disagree. Especially when we disagree."
"But you disagree."
"Absolutely," Hound said without hesitation. "I think you're a huge risk. I think Optimus is letting his history with Megatron cloud his judgment. I think we should have thoroughly checked his history before wasting precious energon keeping him online."
The brutal honesty was almost refreshing after ambiguity and caution.
"Then why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"
"Because," Hound sighed, a heavy sound escaping like steam, "I've been wrong before too. Several times. Misjudged Cybertronians. Executed orders that I later discovered were based on false intelligence. And," he hesitated, something like ancient pain crossing his expression, "because I trust Optimus. Even when I don't trust his decisions. He's earned that through centuries proving that even when he's wrong, he's wrong for the right reasons."
Bumblebee emitted a series of concordant sounds as he began disconnecting temporary energon lines, replacing them with more permanent connections to D-16's systems.
"Bee says his spark signature is different," Hound translated. "Similar to Megatron's, yes. But not identical. There is," he paused, clearly struggling with a technical concept, "a purity to it that Megatron's lost long ago. How can you compare newly refined energon to energon that has been corrupted by centuries of war and hatred?"
D-16 processed this. "Can you really detect a difference like that?"
"Bee can. He's sensitive to energetic nuances that the rest of us can't perceive. That's part of why he's survived so long as a scout," Hound explained. "He can sense Decepticons before they show up on scanners. He can detect traps through energetic anomalies. And he says that you," Hound studied him intensely, "don't register as a threat on your instinctive sensors."
"But you still don't trust me."
"Sensors can be fooled. Instincts can be manipulated. And Megatron has had millennia to perfect deception," Hound said definitively. "So no, I don't trust you. Not yet. Maybe never. But I will follow Optimus's judgment until you prove him wrong."
The energy restraints suddenly vanished. D-16 nearly fell when his feet touched the metal floor, his legs still weak and unreliable. Hound's massive servants caught him before he fell completely, stabilizing him.
"Slowly," Hound advised. "Your mobility systems have taken damage as well. It will take time to fully recalibrate."
D-16 gripped the edge of the diagnostic table, forcing his legs to support his weight. Everything seemed wrong. Balance was off by fractions of a degree. Servos weren't responding with the precision he was used to. It was like being in an alien frame that didn't quite fit.
"Side effects of dimensional transfer," Hound explained, watching its struggle. "Your systems calibrated to the physical constants of your universe. This universe has subtle differences. Gravity a fraction different. Electromagnetic constants slightly varied. Your internal programming is struggling to adapt."
"How long will it take to adapt?"
"Days.
Maybe weeks.
Eventually, your systems will automatically recalibrate.
Until then, expect to be clumsy.
Wonderful. As if he needed any more disadvantages.
Bumblebee touched his arm gently, gaining his attention. The scout emitted a series of questioning sounds while gesturing toward an adjacent area where D-16 could see stockpiles of synthetic energon stored in containers.
"Bee is asking if you're hungry," Hound translated. "Your energon levels are critically low. You need to replenish them."
As if in response, D-16's systems issued a low-energy alert. He hadn't eaten since before the experiment. How long ago was that? It seemed like a lifetime, but probably only days.
"Yes," D-16 admitted. "I'm... very weak."
Bee gently guided him toward the storage area, his movements patient as D-16 limped beside him. Each step was an effort, his servants protesting, but it worked.
The storage area was meticulously organized. Containers were labeled in standard Cybertronian and in the human alphabet. D-16 saw the designations;
Synthetic Energon - Medical Grade, Synthetic Energon - Standard Grade, Synthetic Energon - Emergency Grade.
Bee grabbed a medical-grade container and poured a portion into a small cube. The liquid glowed a pale blue, definitely different from the rich, vibrant energon of Cybertron. But it was energy.
D-16 accepted the cube with slightly trembling servants. He brought it to his lips and drank.
The taste was a shock. Not exactly bad, but definitely not right. There was an underlying bitterness, and something metallic that shouldn't be present in pure energon. His system hesitated, almost rejecting it, before finally accepting it and beginning to process it.
Energy flowed through his circuits in a warm wave. It wasn't comfortable, but it was effective. His energy levels began to rise slowly.
"Earth-based synthetic ergon," Hond explained, observing their reaction. "Made from local resources and technology we've improvised. It's not as good as pure Cybertronian ergon, obviously. But it keeps our sparks burning. It's all we have right now."
"Is Cybertron really dead?" D-16 asked quietly.
Silence was answer enough.
Finally, Hound spoke, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "Dead is a kind word. Cybertron is a husk. Cracked, lifeless surface. Depleted core. Vanished atmosphere. No energon, no power, nothing but ruins and ghosts. The war consumed everything until only ashes remained."
D-16 looked at the cube in his servos, the synthetic energon suddenly seeming more precious. "How many survived?"
"Billions?" Hound paused. "Maybe a few thousand scattered across the galaxy. Mostly Autobots and Decepticons who were off-planet when he died. Those who remained..." he didn't need to finish.
"E Megatron?"
"Dead. Finally," Hound said with grim satisfaction. "Dead for five Earth years. Optimus killed him personally during what we call the Battle of Chicago. Final rip-off of his sparks. It was," he paused, "necessary. But it cost Optimus something he'll never get back."
D-16 absorbed this, processing the implications. Optimus had killed his own version of D-16. He had to destroy someone he once called brother. And now D-16 appeared, the face of a dead enemy but seemingly innocent.
It was no wonder Optimus almost executed him on the spot.
"The others," D-16 said hesitantly. "Crosshairs, Drift. They... hate me too?"
"Hate is a complicated word," Hound considered. "Crosshairs hates what you represent. He lost more friends in the war than he can count. Seeing your face brings all those memories back. Drift..." Hound paused thoughtfully. "Drift is complicated. He was a Decepticon once, you know? Before defecting to the Autobots. He understands better than anyone that Cybertronians can change, can choose different paths. But that also means he knows exactly how dangerous a Decepticon can be."
"And the best?"
Hound stared at him for a long moment. "Optimus carries the weight of our entire species. Every death, every failure, every impossible choice. Megatron was his greatest personal failure. His brother who became his greatest enemy. Killing him was necessary, but it broke something in Optimus that never properly healed. And now you appear," Hound shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know what Optimus feels when he looks at you. Pain, definitely. Maybe curiosity. Maybe hope that in some universe, things could have been different. But also suspicion. Always suspicion."
Heavy footsteps echoed through the bunker. D-16 turned and saw Optimus entering the medical area, his enormous presence immediately dominating the space.
Those blue optics locked onto D-16 immediately, scanning, assessing. "You're awake. Good. We need to talk. Now."
It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.
D-16 lowered the energon cube and tried to stand more upright, ignoring protests from his systems. "I'm ready to answer questions."
"Not here," Optimus said. "Come with me. Hound, Bee, continue monitoring your systems. If it shows any sign of failure, alert me immediately."
Optimus turned and began to walk. D-16 followed him, struggling to keep up with the pace of his much longer legs. Each step was an effort, his locomotion still severely compromised.
Optimus led them through the bunker to what appeared to be an improvised briefing area. A large metal table stood in the center, clearly repurposed from human military equipment.
Screens displaying maps and data.
Chairs of varying sizes accommodating different Cybertronian frames.
Crosshairs was already there, leaning against the wall, its optics fixed on D-16 with obvious suspicion. Drift was in helicopter mode, parked on an elevated platform that allowed a good view of the entire space.
"Sit down," Optimus ordered, gesturing toward the smaller chair.
D-16 obeyed, grateful to have the weight lifted from his unsteady legs. The chair was cold and uncomfortable, clearly not designed for Cybertronian comfort.
Optimus remained standing, looming over the table. "I'm going to ask questions. You will answer them completely and honestly. Any hesitation, any inconsistency, any indication of deception will result in your immediate execution. Understood?"
"Understood," D-16 said, his voice firmer than he felt.
"Okay. First question: describe in exact detail the experiment that brought you here."
D-16 took an unnecessary deep breath, organizing his memories. Then he began to speak.
He recounted everything. The capture by the High Guard at the end of his mining shift. The dragging through levels of Iacon he'd never seen. The underground chambers with equipment he barely understood. The scientists discussing him as an object, not a person.
He described Sentinel Prime arriving, indifferent and cold. The final calibrations. The moment they activated the device and reality began to crumble around him.
He spoke of the pain, the emptiness, the sensation of being stretched across dimensions. And then the fall, the impact, waking up in a damaged and dying alien world.
Optimus listened without interrupting, his eyes never leaving D-16's face. When D-16 finally finished, a heavy silence filled the space.
"You said they needed disposable tests," Optimus finally spoke. "That implies they planned to conduct more tests after yours."
"Yes. The scientists discussed a timeline. My test was just the first. If I survived and the data were favorable, they would plan additional tests with more valuable targets."
"Targets," Crosshairs repeated from the wall, his voice thick with disdain. "They called living Cybertonians targets?"
"Yes. Or units. Or resources. Never... people," D-16 said quietly. "In my caste, we're not considered real people. We're tools that happen to think."
Optimus exchanged a glance with Crosshairs. Something passed between them, a silent communication through eons of partnership.
"Second question," Optimus continued, his voice maintaining a clinical and distant tone. "Your Sentinel Prime. You said he rules absolutely. Describe the complete power structure of your Cybertron."
D-16 organized his thoughts, accessing memories of mandatory transmissions and basic programming lessons that all miners received. "Sentinel Prime is at the absolute top. He is the supreme leader, the final judge, the ultimate authority. Below him is the High Guard, an elite military force that enforces his will. Below them is the Council of Iacon, which manages administrative aspects but has no real decision-making power."
"And the castes?" Optimus pressed.
"There are seven main castes," D-16 explained. "Caste A are the leaders, administrators, those built to govern. Caste B are elite guards, soldiers, protectors. Caste C are artisans, engineers, skilled builders. Caste D," he hesitated, "we are the rank-and-file workers. Miners, factory workers, basic maintenance. Castes E through G are even lower, jobs that don't even require significant intelligence."
"And movement between castes?" Drift asked from above, his voice coming through the helicopter's speakers.
"Impossible. Your caste is determined at the forge, inscribed in your foundational code. It cannot be changed, it cannot be challenged. To attempt to rise above your caste is," D-16 searched for the word, "heresy. Punishable by dismantling and recycling."
"Transformation," Crosshairs said abruptly. "You said you can't transform. Why?"
"Transformation gears are only installed on upper castes A, B, and C. It's a privilege, a sign of status. Those in lower castes don't deserve such an ability," D-16 recited the official justification, then added bitterly, "It also makes us easier to control. It's difficult to escape or resist when you're stuck in bipedal mode while your oppressors can transform and easily catch up to you."
Optimus was very quiet. When he spoke, there was something dangerous in his voice. "Your world enslaves half its population through artificial limitations imposed from birth."
"It's not technically slavery," D-16 said, then corrected himself, "No, you're right. It is exactly slavery. We just call it the social order."
"And you never questioned that?" Crosshairs challenged. "Never thought about resisting?"
"Of course I thought so," D-16 retorted, surprised by his own vehemence. "Everyone in my caste thinks. But thinking and acting are different things. Resistance results in public execution. Questioning results in mental reprogramming. And even if we managed to resist, where would we go? All of Cybertron operates under this system. There is no refuge, no alternative."
"Once upon a time," Optimus said quietly. "In my world, there were castes too. There was oppression too. And a miner named D-16 decided he had suffered enough. He became a gladiator. He gained strength through combat. He gathered followers. And eventually, he declared war against the entire system."
"And he became Megatron," D-16 finished, understanding. "He became the monster you had to destroy."
"He didn't start out as a monster," Optimus said, and there was deep pain in his voice. "He started out as an idealist. As a dreamer. As someone who wanted genuine justice for the oppressed. But somewhere along the way, justice turned into vengeance. Liberation turned into domination. And the liberator became worse than the tyrants he overthrew."
D-16 processed this, feeling a cold sensation settle in his spark. "You're warning me. Saying that if I follow the same path, I'll become the same monster."
"I'm saying that potential is within you," Optimus said brutally. "Because it was within him. Same origin, same injustices, same fundamental spark. The only difference between you and him might be choices you haven't yet made."
"Or," Drift interrupted, "the difference might be that in your universe, there was no war to corrupt you. There was no Optimus to betray your trust. There were no cycles of violence to harden your spark."
Optimus turned to look at Drift, his optics gleaming with something of a warning. But Drift continued, undeterred.
"I'm just saying, boss. He's not Megatron. He's D-16 from a universe where Megatron never existed. Maybe that means something."
"Perhaps it means he's Megatron before he chooses violence," Crosshairs countered. "A bomb that hasn't exploded yet."
"Or perhaps," Hound chimed in through the comm, his voice coming from the room's speakers, "he's proof that Megatron wasn't inevitable. That choices matter."
"Enough philosophy," Optimus interrupted, his voice carrying ultimate authority. "D-16, third question: what do you want?"
The question caught D-16 off guard. "What?"
"What do you want," Optimus repeated. "From us, from this situation, from your existence in this universe. What do you want to achieve?"
D-16 opened his mouth, closed it, processed it. No one had ever asked him what he wanted before. In his entire world, his desires were irrelevant. Only obedience mattered.
"I... want to go home," he finally said. "I want to return to my universe, to my Cybertron."
"Why?" Optimus pressed. "You just described your world as a prison of castes. Why choose to return to that?"
"Because it's my home," D-16 said simply. "Because there are others like me still there, still suffering. Because if I disappear through dimensional experimentation and never return, maybe they'll think twice before using another miner as a disposable guinea pig."
Optimus studied him for a long moment. "Noble sentiment. Also naive. Do you really believe that your survival or death would change anything?"
"No," D-16 admitted. "But I have to believe that testimony matters. That resistance, even in small ways, has value."
"Resist how?"
"Surviving when they expected him to die. Returning when they assumed he was lost. Proving," D-16 searched for words, "that even the disposable has value. That even the lowest caste deserves consideration."
Something changed in Optimus's expression. Just a fraction, but D-16 saw it. Recognition perhaps. Or memory.
"What if returning is impossible?" Optimus asked. "What if there's no way to recreate the dimensional jump that brought you here?"
D-16 hadn't seriously considered that possibility. He didn't want to. "So... I suppose I'd need to find a new purpose here."
"Doing what?"
"I don't know. Working? Helping in any way? I'm good at repairs, reaching tight spaces, solving technical problems," D-16 said, feeling increasingly desperate. "I can be useful. I can earn my place."
"You don't need to earn a place here," Drift said softly. "If you stay, you'll have a place simply by existing."
"That's romantic Autobot philosophy," Crosshairs scoffed. "In practice, everyone earns their place. Through trust. Through actions. And he has miles to go before he earns any."
"I agree," Optimus said, surprising no one. "D-16, here's your situation: you're trapped in this universe until we determine if there's a way to return you. This could take days, weeks, or it could be impossible. During this time, you will remain under our direct supervision."
"In custody, you mean," D-16 said bitterly.
"Under protection," Optimus corrected. "Because if humans discover your existence, you will be captured, dissected, and studied. If any remaining Decepticon discover a Cybertronian with Megatron's signature, you will either be forcibly recruited or executed as an imposter. And if any of our more... enthusiastic allies find out, they might try to execute you for crimes you didn't commit. So yes, custody. But also genuine protection."
D-16 swallowed, processing the reality of his situation. "And what is expected of me during this custody?"
"Total cooperation. Complete honesty. And," Optimus hesitated, "work. If it consumes our resources, it will contribute to our survival. You said you're good at repairs?"
"Yes. I worked on mining equipment for 100 cycles. I can fix almost anything mechanical."
"Good. We have dozens of systems at this base that need maintenance. Human equipment that we've adapted but that fails regularly. You'll work with Hound and Bumblebee on base maintenance. This will keep you busy and useful."
"And it will keep me under constant surveillance," D-16 added.
"Exactly," Optimus didn't deny it. "Trust is earned, not given. Especially when you have the face of my greatest enemy."
D-16 nodded, accepting the terms because he had no choice. "When do I start?"
"Once Hound declares you medically fit for light work, you will rest and allow your systems to complete automatic repairs. Crosshairs will show you where you will sleep."
Crosshairs pushed himself off the wall with an exaggerated sigh. "Sure. I'll babysit mini-Megatron."
"Crosshairs," Optimus said warningly.
"Just kidding, boss. Mostly," Crosshairs gestured to D-16. "Come on, mini-con. I'll show you your new home."
D-16 stood with difficulty, his legs still unsteady. He followed Crosshairs out of the briefing room, aware of Optimus's optics burning into his back with every step.
The bunker was larger than D-16 had initially realized. Crosshairs led him through corridors that smelled of oil and metal, past organized storage areas, a makeshift workshop filled with Earth and Cybertronian tools, and what appeared to be a recreation area with adapted human furniture.
"It's not Cybertron," Crosshairs commented, watching D-16 observe everything. "But it's home. Or close enough for refugees with nowhere better to go."
"How many of you are there?"
"Here? Only five. Me, Optimus, Hound, Drift, and Bee. There used to be more," Crosshairs paused, a hint of pain crossing his expression. "Many more. But war and humans drastically reduced our numbers."
"Are humans hunting you? I thought you were allies."
"They were. Some still are. But the majority," Crosshairs made a bitter sound, "the majority decided that all aliens are threats. That Cybertronians brought too much destruction to Earth. That we are better off dead or captured for study. So we hid. We survived. And we protected the few humans who still give us asylum."
He stopped before a small door, clearly a recent installation in a concrete corridor. "This was a storage room. We converted it into an additional bedroom when we thought there might be more survivors arriving." He opened the door, revealing spartan but functional space.
The room was small, perhaps four square meters. A charging cradle against a wall, basic but functional. A metal shelf for personal storage, empty. A small screen mounted on the wall, connected to the bunker's systems. A single light on the ceiling.
"It's not a palace," Crosshairs said. "But it's private. Yours. The door locks from the inside, but Optimus can override it if necessary. Which he will do regularly because, again, we don't trust you."
"I understand," D-16 said, stepping into the small space. It was more privacy than he'd ever had in his entire life. Miners slept in communal tents, dozens crammed together without any personal dignity.
"The charging cradle is connected to our energon network," Crosshairs continued. "Use it when you need to rest. You'll need more charging than we will for the next few days while your systems finish repairs. The screen will give you access to basic databases, nothing classified. And," he paused, "if you try to access anything you shouldn't, I'll know. And then your time here will end very abruptly."
"I'm not going to try anything," D-16 promised.
"That's better," Crosshairs turned to leave, then paused. "One last thing. I've fought Megatron personally three times. First time, he ripped off my right arm. Second time, he killed my patrol partner right in front of me. Third time, he nearly killed Optimus while I was too damaged to intervene. So when I look at you," his optics locked onto D-16 with icy intensity, "I see the face of every nightmare I've had for the last fifty years. No matter what you say, no matter how innocent you seem, I'll see that face. Do you understand?"
"Yes," D-16 whispered.
"Fine. Prove that he's wrong to distrust you. Prove that you're different. Or," he let the threat hang in the air, unspoken but clear.
Then he left, the door sliding closed behind him with purpose.
D-16 was alone in his new room, in the underground bunker on an alien planet, in a universe that wasn't his own, surrounded by warriors who had every reason to hate him.
He walked to the charging cradle and sat down heavily, exhaustion finally catching up with him. His systems issued an alert suggesting immediate recharging to facilitate ongoing repairs.
But he didn't lie down yet. Instead, he sat there, processing everything that had happened.
In less than a day on Earth, his entire life had been shattered and rebuilt in an unrecognizable form. Torn from his universe, hurled across dimensions, nearly executed, saved by reluctant mercy, and now held in protective custody while his very existence represented trauma to those around him.
And through it all, one image kept returning: Optimus's blue eyes, filled with pain so ancient it seemed a fundamental part of his being.
D-16 didn't understand why, but something in those optics sparked something within him. Something that went beyond fear or gratitude for being saved. Something he didn't yet have words to name.
Finally, he lay down on the recharging cradle, allowing his defenses to lower. Recharging systems activated automatically, energon flowing through damaged circuits, repair protocols accelerating.
As his consciousness drifted toward a recharging state, his last coherent thought was a simple question: in a universe where his own face represented absolute evil, how would he prove that he was different?
How would he prove that choices mattered more than appearance?
And perhaps even more disturbing: if that other D-16 had started exactly where he was now, with the same dreams and hopes, what guarantee was there that he wouldn't follow the same dark path?
The answer, if there was one, eluded him as reloading claimed him completely.