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Chapter Text

Muzhir had run his hands through his hair when the giant robots were first explained to him. A part of him thought that maybe, if he could rub at his head hard enough, the words he heard would start mushing together in a way that made sense.

It didn’t work.

The second time it was brought up was during a briefing. The whole ordeal was all very formal. He’d had to sign a ton of papers promising the government he wouldn’t tell even his own mother about the space robots. Then they had him and the other new recruits sit through a six-hour lecture about space alien relations with the US. He’d nodded along like everyone else, but by the time they were all sent out for a break, several strands of hair were stuck to his sweaty palms.

The other guys didn’t understand it either. This was some test of loyalty, one guy posed. Nah, this was just a hazing or something, another joked. Muzhir nodded along, frowning at every insinuation that what their superiors were telling them was all make-believe.

It just didn’t seem fake. He was being told giant alien robots disguised as everyday vehicles were hanging out at this military base in Nevada, fighting some cosmic war with more giant alien robots here on Earth. That was too weird to be made-up. Had to be real, then, or all those hits to the head in Basic were finally catching up with him.

Ya Allah, then he met the truck guy.

“Giant” was an understatement. Dude was at least two stories tall and buff as hell. But he smiled and moved slowly, like he was taking his time enjoying their reactions to him. Like this was all some big joke. Only, it most certainly was not.

“Name’s Ironhide,” the robot said in the most bizarre voice Muzhir had ever heard. It was like a British guy doing a poor southern accent then autotuned to shreds. Maybe it was just the cadence, but something about it was soothing despite its grated static. “Call me ‘Hide, though. You?”

None of them spoke up. Muzhir looked from his right to his left at the line of trained soldiers staring like slack-jawed children at the talking robot. Not one of them had even considered the reality of what they’d been told. So, he took a deep breath and dived head-first into this insanity.

“Muzhir Qadir,” he called out, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound.

“Chill, kid, I ain’t that old,” Ironhide teased back. “Nice to meet you. Excited?”

He dropped his hands to his sides, slapping his thighs as he laughed a little. “Terrified, actually.”

“Don’t be. Not like you going to fight us or nothing.” The robot shifted his weight to one leg and shoved his hands at his hips. “Just stand there and look pretty.”

A true laugh bubbled up from him, and he gave the red alien-guy-truck-thing a thumbs up. “Not my strong suit, but sure.”

Ironhide laughed, a noise that sounded more like a pulsing engine roar being played through a crummy speaker. “Naw, you look that bad?”

Muzhir squinted to better see the thing’s face. It looked normal with a mouth hole and two holes filled with blue lights he was pretty sure were eyes. Maybe he was wrong, but he didn’t remember anything in the briefings about the robots being blind. “You can’t see?”

“I can, you just all look the same to me. You know?”

He didn’t. Looking over at the stunned guys standing in line with him, he couldn’t comprehend how any of them looked the same even to an alien. Maybe the things were colorblind or could see way more colors like those weird shrimp he’d read about on twitter.

The confusion didn’t end there. Ironhide went through the basic edict they needed to know about the other aliens before walking over to the hanger’s garage doors. Muzhir ran through all the rules over and over again as he and the others walked after him. Don’t sit on any cars, they might be an alien. Don’t call anyone ugly, that’s rude and just plain stupid. Don’t demand anyone speak English for you because they may not know it yet or be having a private conversation. Don’t—

All thought stopped when Ironhide started folding in on himself. In a matter of seconds, the robot was replaced by a classic Ram 1500.

The other guys gasped and swore. Muzhir just shrugged and nodded along when the truck told them to get in. Honestly, this didn’t make any less sense than the other nonsense they’d just seen.

The robots were living out in some other base in the middle of Nowhereland, Nevada. Ironhide drove them over to it, explaining the whole way the different people they were going to meet and how significant each alien was. All things they’d already been told, but shock was steeling all their memories of the briefings, so the reminder was rather welcomed.

Seeing the other robots was no less astonishing. The really big guy, Optimus Prime, was about twice Ironhide’s side with a commanding voice to match, but he smiled sweetly and thanked them for joining the crew. Jazz wore a massive smile and could talk up a storm like he was made to live on Earth. Ratchet didn’t say two words to them, but Muzhir liked the fond way Ironhide teased the grouch. It was like they’d all been living together for years. The way Ironhide explained it, that wasn’t too far off.

“In Earth time,” the robot drawled, “we’ve been fighting for about four million years.”

“Jesus,” one of the guys—Jesse, maybe—swore, his eyes blowing wide. “Long time to be at war.”

“Over fuel, right?” another guy named…Robert?…asked. “Or energy?”

“Energon,” Ironhide corrected. “That’s about half our reasons.”

Muzhir ran up ahead to walk alongside the giant as they continued down the hall. “What else is it about?”

Ironhide went quiet for long enough that Muzhir began to worry he’d overstepped a boundary in asking. Maybe this was a sore subject. Maybe they’d been fighting for so long that the reasons were lost to them.

Whatever the case, he was never told. Ironhide lengthened his stride as they came upon a wide door and open it ahead of their little party. Exuberate sounds of welcome greeted him, breaking his metal face apart with a grin. The robot ushered the humans all in, waving signs of caution to those inside and speaking warnings in a clicking language Muzhir had no hope of understanding.

There were so many robots. The rec room was filled with steel frames in all shapes and sizes and colors. Ironhide led them through to the center of the room where massive couches were arranged before a blank wall. A projector was casting a film or something across its surface, but some of its viewers had stopped watching to wave at them.

Muzhir waved back like it was perfectly normal before noticing the scappling behind one sofa. About a dozen other humans decked out in casual wear were lounging on the raised surface, and they sent cocky waves and rude gestures his way.

The shock of it all slowly dissipated the longer they hung out around the other humans. Ironhide stayed standing close by, seeming ready to catch any newcomers who accidentally walked off the platform. While the other new guys talked to the older soldiers, Muzhir sat back and gazed around at all the aliens surrounding him.

“So,” he piped up, gesturing to Ironhide to catch the truck’s attention. “You know everyone here?”

The robot shrugged. “Pretty much. This is just a small bit of us, though. Lot of us got scattered out in space.”

“How?” he asked, genuinely curious. He didn’t remember anything from the briefings about why the aliens were here other than “for war”.

“Long story, kid.” Ironhide grinned, but his eyes seemed to dim a little. “Point is, not all my friends are here right now.”

“You have friends?” Jesse asked, sounded absolutely floored.

One of the robots on the couch twisted around to glare at him. “Course we do, afthead.”

Ironhide actually laughed at that. “What Cliff means is yeah, we all got friends.”

Another new human, this younger looking kid with deep-brown freckles and fiery hair, looked sheepishly between Cliff and Ironhide. “You guys are robots though.”

“Look,” one of the older soldiers—Bishop—said, turning everyone’s attention dutifully his way, “these guys aren’t like the computers you’re used to. They’re like people. They have moods and senses of humor and honest-to-God personalities. Some have friends, some even have wives.”

Ironhide shifted his weight, a loud kind of movement what with the guy being metal and all. “What’s a wive, again?”

“A wife,” Bishop corrected. “The woman you spend the rest of your life with. A, uh, life partner, or whatever you guys call it.”

Immediately, Ironhide’s eyes shone much brighter, and his calming grin grew excitedly. “Oh yeah! I got me one of those.”

Jesse’s face scrunched up in utter confusion. “You do?”

Muzhir snorted at him. “Like that’s the weirdest thing you’ve hear today.”

“Topping my charts, yeah.”

Freckles sat up a little, looking at Ironhide quisitively. “Is she here?”

The robot’s brightness dimmed a bit, his body clanking as it slouched. “No…no, she’s back home. On our planet, I mean. But, fraggit, I wish you all could meet her.” His smile began to grow again as his eyes shut wistfully. “Chromia is the baddest glitch I ever met. Packs more ammunition than me. Can bust a hole clean through any fool’s chassis. Whips my sorry aft so hard she puts all my skills to shame. Man, she’s just…she’s just incredible.”

Muzhir couldn’t help but smile at the playful expression the robot wore. For as long as they’d been talking, it was that minor detail that really cemented this whole thing for him. These weren’t just robots. They were people living actual lives. “She’s sounds like the kind of woman who could beat me to a pulp, and I’d thank her for her time.”

Ironhide laughed again, this time with his whole body, then pointed at him happily. “You got it, man. Musher, was it?”

“Muzhir,” he corrected, his smile refusing to falter. “It’s cool, though. You can call me Mark if that’s easier.”

“Name’s a name,” a different robot chimed in. He twisted around from his place on the couch beside Cliff, revealing not a face, but a smooth mask where a mouth would be and one long uni-eye or band or something. “We want you to respect us, so we’ll respect you.”

Cliff chuckled, smirking as he pointed out, “You really want respect, you ought to make them call us by our actual names.”

As crazy as the day had been, Muzhir could only really focus on the conversation that followed. The film was completely ignored as robot after robot tried to get the humans to pronounce stuff in their native tongue. It was stupid fun trying to make the strange static sounds and clicks that rolled out their mouths so easily. In return, Muzhir got them and even some of the other humans to attempt Hindi and Urdu.

And as all great conversations did, it swept through a tirade of so many other topics. He learned Ironhide’s actual name essentially meant “difficult to kill or harm” while Cliffjumper’s translated to “able to handle hard falls”. Though they all had a good laugh at his own flowery namesake, Jazz was quick to find a Cybertronian version with which to call him. Muzhir couldn’t pronounce it, but he smiled all the same at the easy inclusion of him. He didn’t stop smiling as Jazz explained what music was like on Cybertron and even sang a few hits. He didn’t know the words, but as the rec room slowly devolved into a party, he danced along on Ironhide’s shoulder.

Lying in bed that night, all he could really think about was how easy it all was. Mutal cultural curiosity. How long had it been since he’d encountered that?

Chapter Text

Over the months that followed, Muzhir convinced himself multiple times that he was becoming something of an expert in transformers. He knew each of the Autobots by name, he knew their occupations, he mostly knew the social circles, and he even knew a few words and phrases in (very poorly pronounced) Standard Cybertronian.

It seemed like the moment he got comfortable was the moment someone decided to shake things up.

There was a new batch of human recruits getting acclimated to the Autobot base, wandering around and asking a ton of questions. Muzhir was hanging out with Jazz and a few of the minibots on the rec room couches when the new guys hopped up on the robot-sized coffee table to clarify a few things. Nothing out of the ordinary about it. No rude questions, nothing blatantly or intentionally offensive.

Until someone brought up relationships.

“You things have friends?” one newbie asked. Muzhir wasn’t a hundred percent certain what his name was, but the guy looked like a Ken.

Jazz laughed in that sing-song way that made the insult seem like nothing at all. Cliffjumper, however, was not nearly as tolerant.

“Yeah,” Cliff huffed, “us ‘things’ can make friends. Can you?”

“Chill, mech,” Jazz sang, gesturing at the red minibot to tone it down. To the human, he explained, “We got all sorts of relations going on. What you want to know?”

Ken threw on a cocky grin that made Muzhir pray he blended enough into the beige couch not to be noticed. “If you have friends, then do you have ladies?”

Jazz smirked. A very dangerous sign to any sane person that they ought to immediately shut up and seek cover. “Ladies?” the spy asked sweetly, as if he didn’t know what that insinuated.

“Yeah,” Ken insisted, motioning at his chest. “You know. The opposite sex. The ones with curves.”

“Oh,” Jazz exclaimed, squeezing his own knee as he drew out the word. “You asking if I got myself a lover?” At Ken’s enthusiastic nod, he answered rather plainly. “Yeah, actually.”

Muzhir would have done a spit take if he’d been drinking. His body settled on just choking on air. He looked up at Jazz as he sputtered, like he’d never seen the guy before. “Really?” he asked before he remembered his goal of not being seen.

Jazz shrugged as if this was nothing surprising. “Well, yeah! I ain’t never mentioned Prowl?”

“I mean,” Muzhir fumbled, watching his words carefully, “yes, but I didn’t know you two were an item.”

“Well, slag, man, that’s on me for being too professional in downtime.” Jazz threw on an easy smile and shifted on the couch to sit side-ways, so they were facing each other. “Yeah, Prowler and me go way back. Been together ‘bout as long as the war’s been going on.”

Muzhir whistled at that. “Long time to even know someone, let alone be with them.”

“Which one’s Prowl?” Ken chimed in, some insecurity laced in his voice. Probably from being suddenly left out, Muzhir figured.

“He’s off in space,” Jazz explained, waving away the sad fact casually. “We talk often, but I still miss him like nothing else.”

Ken was already a pretty white dude, but he seemed to drop several shades closer to a ghost. “He?”

“Yeah, Prowler.”

“No, no.” Ken shook his head and his hands like he was being offered something disgusting. “A lover’s someone you’re romantic with. Like a woman.”

“Okay,” Jazz chipped in, nodding like he followed. “Guess Prowl’s a woman, then.”

“But you said he was a guy?”

“Not sure why that matters.” Jazz sat back so he was lounging against the arm of the sofa. It was only then that Muzhir noticed the little tells in the visor that Jazz was looking elsewhere. The light was pooling to the right side, so Muzhir followed the gaze to the minibots sitting on the other sofa. Cliff, Brawn, and Gears all looked about ready to leap into the debate, but that single look from Jazz was enough to keep them back.

Not for the first time, Muzhir was reminded how freaking intelligent Jazz was. Most of the other Autobots had no clue what gender even was or why the humans cared what they called themselves. But Jazz knew. He may not understand the human obsession with knowing what was in a stranger’s pants, but he did know full well that the topic was a sensitive one.

He also, evidently, was very willing to break human norms through pretend ignorance. So, Muzhir sat back, prepared to watch the show and/or follow Jazz’s lead.

Ken had taken several steps forward to gesture more wildly at Jazz. “Because. Men and women are made to go together, not men and men or whatever else people are doing nowadays.”

“How’m I supposed to know what Prowl is?” Jazz asked innocently. “Not like he has a human with him to say what she looks like.”

“Does—is he more like Arcee or you?”

Jazz cocked his head to the side in thought. “Nothing like ‘Cee. He’s real pretty, though. Broad shoulders, slender till you reach his hips, then his silhouette gets silky. Her frame’s kind of like mine but has these gorgeous doorwings off his back that just—” he made a chef’s kiss motion “—sublime, my man. Woman. Whatever you think you are.”

“I am a man,” Ken asserted. “That didn’t actually answer me.”

Muzhir almost snorted at the fake shock Jazz’s face morphed into. “It didn’t?”

Ken looked ready to interrogate Jazz some more, but his attempt was cut off by a familiar, cheery voice.

“Hey!” Wheeljack called out. “When’s movie night starting?”

Jazz grinned and leaned his head backwards to watch the engineer walk over upside-down. “Whenever enough fraggers show up. What’d you lose to get Rachet to come with you?”

Muzhir leaned forward so he could see the ‘Bots approaching. Sure enough, trailing just behind the chipper engineer was the world’s grouchiest doctor.

Wheeljack chuckled like he knew some dark secret. “Like I’d tell you.”

“My patience,” Ratchet offered up with his customary half-smirk, half-frown.

“Hot commodity,” Jazz teased, shifting to sit properly. “Watch where you sit, Muzhir’s with me.”

He waved wide at the sound of his name, prepared for when the pair started searching over the sofa for him. “I can move.”

Both Jazz and Wheeljack immediately made noises of denial, but Ratchet was the only one who articulated actual words. “If you plan on taking up the entire couch for your tiny aft, I won’t think twice about squashing you.”

Muzhir grinned, trying to remind himself Ratchet didn’t mean anything by it. If anything, being insulted meant you were in his good graces. “Yeah, no, I’m not stupid.” He started the difficult process of getting to his feet on the plush surface as the pair came to stand patiently in front of him.

He managed to gain his footing but didn’t go more than one step before falling to his knees. When he made to try again, he could hear Wheeljack start snickering. When he (once again) fell over, he gave the guy a hard glare. “Don’t even.”

Wheeljack was grinning like a trickster as he shook his head. “Too soft for you?”

“Shut it,” Muzhir muttered, knowing the Autobots’ sensitive ear-things could still pick up his low swearing.

The couch suddenly dipped behind him, collapsing him on his front. Muzhir whipped around to fuss jokingly at Wheeljack’s antic only to pause. Jack had just sat down on the opposite end of the couch, far enough away from him for human safety but not providing enough distance for Ratchet to sit between them.

That didn’t seem to matter.

Ratchet batted away Wheeljack’s grabbing hands. “I’m not—”

“Just come here,” Wheeljack insisted, managing to get a grip on the doctor’s hips. He laughed as he pulled his partner towards him. “For Muzhir’s safety.”

Ratchet made a long series of muttered curses. Somewhere in there were the words “flimsy” and “idiot” among other, unrepeatable phrases. He didn’t put up much of a fight, though, and let himself be dragged onto Wheeljack’s lap. “Satisfied?”

“Not yet.” Wheeljack pried his arms free to shove them under Ratchet’s, encircling him in a tight hug. “Now, yea—”

“Why are you like this?” Ratchet twisted to grab Wheeljack by the top of his head where the metal jutted out in a prominent crest. Like a unicorn horn, Muzhir thought and wisely kept to himself.

Wheeljack made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a strain as his head was shoved back, but his grin just kept growing wider. “Take it easy, Sunshine.”

“For the love of—”

“Hey! Maybe don’t.”

Muzhir looked around for the voice’s origin. Then he remembered Ken, still standing aimlessly on the coffee table. Alone, now, since the other humans had taken to chatting with Brawn. But this guy was looking over at the little couch skirmish, his hands balled into fists.

“They’re fine, human,” Gears piped up, sounding as tired as always. “They’re not actually trying to kill each other. It’s just how they are.”

“No,” Ken corrected, pointing at the middle of the couch. “I mean, just wait for the Paki to quit being an idiot. You guys look gay.”

Muzhir cringed, begging the focus stay on the lovers spat still waging onward heedless of scrutiny. But of course, Jazz would never let things like that go.

“Oh no,” the spy lamented, faking disappointed. “You done fragged yourself right up.” He reached out a hand to Muzhir, preventing him from trying to crawl closer. “Nah, man, you chill right where you’re planted.” To the minibots, he asked, “Which one of you want to take him to time-out?”

Brawn and Cliffjumper leapt up, the latter shoving his friend to the ground for the win.

“What for? I didn’t even say anything,” Ken insisted, looking for all the world like he wanted to fight the giant robots. “Don’t tell me you’re all leftist sheep.”

Jazz grinned so wide the teeth-like metal in his mouth shown. “Straight white male,” he sang in his deep, deep baritone that bottled up more sweetness than ought to exist in any one person. “I know the road looks tough ahead.”

“Oh Allah,” Muzhir swore, plastering his hands on his face. But he couldn’t help it. His hands moved to his hair on their own accord, allowing him to watch as Cliff picked up a yelling Ken by the back of his shirt.

“The women want rights. The gays want kids,” Jazz sang, sitting back to enjoy the chaos and grinning wider and wider as Cliff carried Ken away. “Why can’t you just leave us alone? But also ‘no’ to the things you asked for.”

“Shut up, Jazz,” Ratchet spat.

That only earned the doctor a hearty laugh. “You want a different tune? Got plenty.”

Muzhir looked over to see a gleaming Wheeljack hug a very perturbed Ratchet tighter against his chest. “You are my sunshine,” he…sang? It was more like slower talking, especially compared to the masterpiece of a voice that followed.

“My only sunshine.”

“You make me hap—”

“Someone pick a movie!” Ratchet blurted out, leaning back to shove his shoulder blade into Wheeljack’s mouth. “I don’t even care what we watch at this point.”

Muzhir laughed quietly to himself as the inevitable chorus of “Jurassic Park!” sounded off throughout the rec room. While others quickly swarmed the couches and the projector was finally powered on, he made to move again. Only, he didn’t get very far. A large metal hand gently scooped him up and deposited him on a shoulder.

“Decent view?” Jazz asked, keeping his hand raised like a makeshift railing as Muzhir gained his footing.

He couldn’t really tell with the hand in his way, but even if the view was terrible, the answer was still the same. “Yeah, thanks.”

“No trouble, man.” Once Muzhir gave him a high-five to signal he was settled, Jazz lowered his hand. “Don’t let nobody run you over.”

Muzhir gave the mech a confused once over. There was nothing in the blank way Jazz looked towards the projection on the wall that gave away his thoughts. A useful talent Muzhir only wished he had, but one that made it difficult to see in what way Jazz was concerned. “It’s not like he said much of anything. I’m fine, Jazz. No harm done.”

“You can get used to stuff like that. Believe me, I know.” Jazz didn’t turn his head, but the light behind his visor pooled to one side as he looked Muzhir’s way. “What’s allowed to take hold will grow.”

Muzhir shook his head, throwing on a smile. “We’re passed that, Jazz. I can’t let the little things hurt me when there are larger issues to worry over.”

Jazz turned to look at him properly. His eyes may not have been visible, but the intensity with which he trained his gaze did not go unfelt. “How so?”

Where was he to start? With grade school? Maybe the day some kids started running around the playground shouting “Allah” before tagging someone. Maybe the day a kid in his class screamed when he said the name of god aloud. Maybe when he first noticed the way his teachers looked at him, some with pity and others with distance. Or should he go big? Tell Jazz about getting the day off from school one September morning. Or about what followed. Or about the frilly scarf his mother bought him that weekend, the one with the red, white, and blue stripes that became his new favorite thing to wear. Explain why dawning that scarf every morning made him feel like a superhero dawning his cape. Because no one liked Clark Kent, but everyone loved Superman.

And that was only childhood. There was far too much to explain to an alien who didn’t know enough about American politics. “It’s complicated,” he settled with, nodding at Jazz that it was okay not be bothered by human things.

“I know complicated,” Jazz sang, grinning knowingly. “I started a war over ‘complicated’.”

They ended up not watching Jurassic Park. Which was fine given how often the Autobots screened that movie. And besides, the conversation they had was far, far better than any film Muzhir’d seen.

Jazz carried him out early in the viewing, sneaking off without a sound or notice, and brought him to the Autobot barracks. Once set on Jazz’s bed, sitting across from the large robot, Muzhir starting talking. And he didn’t stop. Not for half an hour. Then Jazz followed suit, telling him all about the “Golden Age” on Cybertron, about the life he’d led before the war and before Prowl, and about the harsh transition into power he experienced, even among fellow Autobots.

“We’re not done,” Jazz explained with a sad sort of smile. “Wish we were so I could give you some kind of advice, but we ain’t in a utopia, yet.”

“I don’t think we ever will be,” Muzhir laughed, running a hand through his hair. “I just hope we don’t repeat your history.”

Jazz bobbed his head to his own, unsung tune. “You and me both.”

Chapter Text

The face staring back at her bared little resemblance to hers. The complexion was a shade too pale save for the darken skin under her eyes. The features were strained, so much so she could see the jaw muscles spasming. There wasn’t a spec of the head that wasn’t covered in a thin layer of sweat, giving the scalp an even faker shine. Then there were the eyes. The irises were as still a deep brown, but there was a vacancy to their gaze that looked more like a Polar Express character.

It was stupid, really. That face had no reason to act so stressed. She was fine. Better than fine. She was exactly where she wanted to be, fulfilling a dream she’d had for as long as she could remember.

And that fact should have fueled her. She should have been jumping off the walls at being a candidate for a new Special Operations unit. All her fantasies of serving her country in the most elite forces of the military, of being in control of world-shaking phenomena, ought to have excited her. The feeling of wanting something so badly was right there. She could recall countless memories of being filled with an elation that rattled her soul and stung her eyes. She remembered the glow of her form when she’d gazed in the mirror and pictured herself in uniform.

She pushed off the counter to stand straight. Tugging at her clothes didn’t make them look any more fitting, but it was all she could do to feel at peace in their confines.

God, what is wrong with me? she prayed, knowing full and well she’d get no answers. At some point, she was going to have to admit there was nothing to blame. The vacancy in her eyes was just her. Only her.

That didn’t mean anyone needed to see it. She wiped her face, took several deep breaths, and marched out the bathroom.

There was no harm in heading to the meeting location early, so she checked the email directing her to which hanger they were called to. Distracted as she was, she didn’t notice anyone else in the hall until a deep voice called out, “Going someplace in a hurry?”

Her body froze. By voice alone, she knew the man speaking to her wasn’t an officer she knew, but that didn’t stop her limbs from straightening out or her head from picking up her gaze. “Yes, sir,” she rushed out before her sight fully registered.

The man was indeed no one she recognized, not even from emails or websites. His clothes didn’t help her any since they were a simple tee-shirt and cargo pants. Not an on-duty soldier, then, and likely not one of the officers about to assess the Spec Ops candidates. With that relaxing thought in mind, her gaze lifted to the man’s face.

She froze when she saw his hair. All of his hair. After so long being surrounded by shaved heads and trim cuts, the mop of dreadlocks on the man sent her mind reeling.

Not a soldier at all, then.

“At ease,” the man said, putting his hands up like he was surrendering to her. It was only when his bright smile drew her attention back to his face that she realized she couldn’t see half of it. The man’s eyes were covered by a thick pair of reflective sunglasses.

Definitely not military. “Are you in need of directions?” she asked and almost immediately wanted kick herself. As if she knew this base. What an absolute idiot.

Fortunately, the man shook his head. “Nah, I’m wandering just fine.” He swayed a step closer, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You doing alright?”

Oh God. She managed to suppress the urge to wipe at her face as she asserted, “I am fine.”

“Hey,” the man sang, “it’s fine if you aren’t.” It didn’t seem to matter that his eyes were hidden. Something in the way he tilted his head at her sent his gaze propelling into her very soul. “If someone’s hurt you, I can deal with them.”

She couldn’t help that her features contorted, betraying her suspicion. Maybe it was the quick darting of her eyes over his casual clothes, but the man backtracked like he knew what she was thinking. 

He motioned to himself and beamed knowingly. “Just ‘cause I’m from out of town doesn’t mean I don’t have power.” There again, his gaze pierced her. “I’ll take care of it. Promise. All I need’s a name and a detail.”

Oh God. Her head was shaking before he’d even finished the sentence. “No, no one’s after me,” she asserted as she took a few steps to walk around him. “I promise, I’m fine.”

If the man called out after her, she didn’t hear it. She was already down the hall and turning a corner by the time her mind caught up with her body. The sooner distance was put between her and that terrible interaction, the better.

Lining up in a grid with twenty or so strangers was an easy feat. They all knew how to communicate with a quick glance or gesture where they each were going. She didn’t know a single soul, but there was safety in the order her brothers and sisters in arms cultivated.

The anxieties of a few hours ago melted away. She was standing at attention and never felt more relaxed.

A general read off a list of expected behaviors. Another stood before them to congratulate them all for their stellar records. A third approached from behind their grid, walking around them as she explained who she was and who they would need to impress.

It was all standard, she told herself. And there was comfort in that order. She listened to the words coating the air but didn’t really absorb them. Her mind was elsewhere, chasing after a numbness that kept her safe from herself.

She was fine until a familiar voice erupted from behind.

“Alright, alright!” a man sang. She didn’t dare turn around, but she heard him clap a few times as he walked around the grid. Once he was in front of them, he beamed. “Nice to meet all y’all.”

The man. The same freaking man. In his same dreadlocks and sunglasses and casual tee-shirt.

Another much taller man followed calmly after Dreadlocks. He, at least, was wearing a more appropriate blazer with slacks but didn’t seem to be in any rush to address their group. Dreadlocks must have been in charge because he waved his arms like a DJ wanting the music turned down and told them, “At ease, party people. I ain’t getting anywhere with you all standing like statues.”

One by one, the pairs of shoulders bordering her went lax. Hers, however, just couldn’t seem to move. Too many thoughts were keeping her body frozen in place. Because if that one, minor, stupid interaction in the hall was going to cost her this position…she didn’t know what she’d do.

“Oh, hey there!”

No. Her gaze dropped to the ground. No, he was not going to recognize her.

Footsteps echoed through the quiet hanger. “Hey, sorry about earlier. Meant to catch your name.”

Air clogged her throat, and the pressure built up in her shoulders, then down her spine, stopping to inflate her stomach.

The footsteps got closer. “Feeling any better?”

She managed to nod. The motion let out some of the pressure through her eyes, so she abruptly stopped.

So, too, did the footsteps. “Man, everyone around here is so rigid, don’t you think? They got you folks prepped to freeze at the first sight of authority. If you want my opinion, I think you all need to loosen up.”

This was test. Either by God or these general people. A test of her loyalty to this path in life or—or of her resilience, perhaps? Something to that effect. Regardless, she was not going to fail. That had nothing to do with her body failing her, of course. Nothing at all.

“Alright, well, let’s give loosen a shot, yeah?” The man clapped. “Everyone get in a circle. Don’t you dare make it neat,” he laughed.

Of course, they followed the order as strange as it was. Even she managed to raise her head and file in with the others. The circle was fairly clean, at first, but a few cadets took hesitant steps forward or backward to swirl the line. She did the same, if only as a show of defiance to whatever freeze had overtaken her a moment ago.

It helped the man had moved away from her. He sauntered into the middle of their circle and twirled to give each of them a once over. Maybe it was just because she’d been subjected to his gaze before, but she could feel his eyes pierced her again. Despite his easy smile, there was a seriousness behind the sunglasses that the man used on each and everyone of them.

“I’m called Jazz,” the man explained, grinning like a mischievous cat. “Reason why’s because I love music more than most things in life. It’s great, you know? Relieves the soul and relaxes the frame.” He clapped again. “Let’s try something. I want y’all to dance for me. Nothing showy, just wiggle all that stress outta ya.”

Not a soul moved. At first.

One man lifted his arms slowly as if he was being held at gunpoint. At Jazz’s encouraging nod, he moved them in jagged circles. His rhythm was terrible, but Jazz mimicked his little shuffle until the cadet was dancing in earnest.

One by one, they all reluctantly followed his lead. Jazz made happy sounds and danced along.

“See?” he asked them, shrugging his shoulders for emphasis. “Relaxes you, doesn’t it?” Jazz shuffled over to a random cadet and made to travel the inner circumference of their circle. “Now, some of you have no rhythm, but that’s perfectly fine,” he remarked, nodding to one man in particular. The guy was laughing to himself and barely moving his feet. “You get points for trying is all.” The guy nodded but snorted incredulously.

Jazz jerked like lightning. His electricity shut down their abilities to move, leaving all of them to stare blankly at the scene. The snorting guy was leaning away uncomfortably from the dark fist an inch from face. He didn’t look like he was breathing. She couldn’t blame him. She’d been under Jazz’s gaze before but couldn’t imagine it staring down his arm at her.

The light in Jazz’s voice vanished as he deadpanned, “You couldn’t loosen up when asked or tighten up when necessary. Seems to me you’re not fit for this program.”

“Wha—” the guy started then wisely shut his mouth. His breath returned to him, heaving his chest in and out in quick succession.

Jazz lowered his arm and took a casual step back. “No, no, by all mean, air your grievances. ‘Cause I don’t tolerate the ways of rigidity you’re used to.”

That was all it took for the guy to explode. “What kind of assessment is that? Just because I don’t think dancing around is productive, you think I’m not capable of being a soldier?”

Jazz nodded, his dreadlocks bouncing along to the smooth rhythm. “Don’t get me wrong, I get it.” A kind of tension ebbed from Jazz’s form. It moved with him as he approached the rouge cadet and invaded the poor guy’s space as Jazz stopped mere inches from him. Still calm as calm could be. “If I wanted a drone to aim and shoot when and how I wanted, I’d have gotten a drone. What I really want are people.” He grinned something charming as he turned to the rest of the group. “Any of you agree with him? Y’all are welcome to leave.”

Not a soul dared move.

Jazz laughed, a sound more akin to smooth blues than anything human, and covered his sunglasses with a hand. “I mean it. You like having structure, by all means run to it. I won’t judge. I won’t even look. Just know you ain’t getting that with me.”

The man who’d lashed out was the first to take his leave. Three more men followed. Then two women. She considered leaving as well. Why wouldn’t she? Life was chaotic, and the military offered a sense of stability she was sure to thrive in.

But her feet remained glued to the ground. Whether it was fear or God or simple curiosity, she just couldn’t seem to move.

A door swished closed behind the last of the leaving cadets. Only then did Jazz remove his hand and take inventory of those who remained. He smiled again with a sweetness that might have made her blush if he looked at her directly. Unfortunately, his gaze fell squarely on her. And his grin only seemed to widen. “Glad to see you stayed.”

This was a mistake. She dropped her gaze to the floor in an effort to avoid Jazz’s, but the feeling of his eyes on her transcended all sense. If she could have bolted the moment she heard footsteps approaching her, she would have. But her fate remained sealed.

“Hey,” Jazz called out. “Ask me whatever you want. I’ll be as transparent as possible.”

Her breath clogged in throat at the thought of this stranger singling her out for seemingly no reason. She forced herself to speak around it. “Why are you happy I stayed?”

The footsteps drew nearer until they stopped about a yard away from her. “You’re going through a hard time. I can see it ‘cause I know it. But despite whatever it is you got going on, you’re here.” His voice dropped an octave. Somehow. “Believe me when I say I know hardships. I know how painful it is to be broken and struggle to rebuild in all that free time I have,” he laughed. “I know what it’s like when my best one moment is my worst in another. It’s frustrating. And terrifying. And it makes rebuilding yourself that much harder.”

A pause. She chanced raising her eyes to his. In doing so, she became overtaken by a smile and gentle, hidden gaze that pierced her more than his words.

Jazz nodded like he was satisfied with something. “All your efforts sometimes cumulate to another break. It happens. But,” he said as he leaned in closer to her, “you still showed up. If you can do that while breaking, then you’ve got something I want in a soldier.” He took a step closer, raising his voice a little higher. “And now you’ve got me,” he added with a quirk of his mouth that dismantled her darkest thoughts.

“I take it your assessment of this cadet is complete?”

She nearly startled at the foreign voice, having forgotten there were others around. The man—Jazz’s companion in the slacks and blazer—walked over to them with his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed tall from a distance, but she had to stretch her neck to see his face once he was near them.

“Yeah, Prime,” Jazz cheered and started walking away. “She’s coming with us.”

“What?” her mouth spat out before she could filter it.

“You have been informally accepted into the program,” Slacks—or, Prime—explained. He motioned to the opposite end of the hanger. “This way.”

Of course, she started walking. What else was she supposed to do?

Time didn’t help her process a thing.

She’d been escorted to a dormitory by officers she’d never seen before wearing uniforms she didn’t recognize. A stranger brought her belongings to her room. She was told to wait. For how long was anyone’s guess.

At least they let her go outside. Walking laps around the dorms didn’t do anything productive, but the movement was methodical and trapped her focus. So long as she kept moving, her thoughts couldn’t steal her sanity.

Two days went by in a slow blur.

The evening of that second day found her standing on the edge of the compound staring out into the empty sky. Numbness subdued her mind, leaving her vacant and calm. Even when footsteps approached her from behind.

“Good day?”

She didn’t have to turn around to see who was speaking. The deep, smooth voice was hardly forgettable. “Decent, sir.”

“Don’t go sir-ing me, now,” Jazz laughed as he came to stand beside her. “Sorry for the wait. Not everyone’s as easy to peg as you.”

How was she supposed to respond to that? Like a friend, like a colleague, like an authority? She opted to ignore her own confusion and just nod.

“How you been? Better than the other day?”

Another question she had no right answer to. If she was honest, she had only gotten worse. Two days ago, the only person impacted by her failures was herself. Now this apparently powerful man thought far too highly of her. What did it matter she was stayed in the hanger? Others had, and others were more capable than her of accomplishing far more meaningful tasks. How was she supposed to proceed knowing this man had expectations of her she could never exceed?

But there was no way being honest was the right way to go. No, this man wanted something genuine, but he surely wasn’t looking for the truth. “Nothing is actually wrong with me.”

She didn’t need to look over to know Jazz was smiling. “I tell myself the same thing.”

Oh God. Oh God, he thought they were in a similar state of denial. She’d never wanted to bolt so much in her life than in that moment when she stood beside what had to be a veteran and gave him the impression they were the same.

“No,” she rushed out. And with that one fracture in resolve came an entire wave of panic that flooded out her mouth. “I have no reason to feel like this because there is literally nothing wrong with me or my life. I am exactly where I want to be and headed in the direction I’ve always wanted to go. I know there’s nothing wrong. I know. But I can’t seem to feel it at the moment.” Somehow, she remembered to breathe. That only seemed to burst the dam more. “It’s terrifying me that I can’t seem to shake this and that I might ruin what I’ve worked my whole life to accomplish.”

“What is it you want?” Jazz asked. He’d interrupted, yes, but his voice was too low and soothing to be offensive.

“This,” she said simply. She tugged at the uniform resting against her body, taking the loungewear fabric in her fingers and wishing it felt electric. “I want to serve in the military. I want to be in Ops.” A film washed over her vision. Whether it was tears or dust or God being a jerk, she could see her life play out before her like a movie. A stupid “inspirational” movie that ended with the hero in uniform hopping on a bus to a military camp, their bag in hand and loved ones waving them away.

She wanted it. God, did she want it. So much she clung to that foolish film and forced herself into the picture. “I want my life to be more than just mine. If I could just fade into a group, knowing that our bonds and our missions are enough to make small—maybe even profound—changes, I’d be happy.” All that she said hurled right back at her face with the striking realization she’d made a complete fool of herself. Shaking her head was all she could do for a moment. “I—I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. You don’t know how guilty I feel. What I am here for—I know it satisfies me and fills me with passion. It’s just all hollow, and I don’t know how to fix it just yet.”

Dreadlocks bobbing in her periphery were the only warning she received of Jazz moving in front of her. “First off, take a breath.”

Of course, she wasn’t about to disregard an order. Her lungs ached as air washed into them, but she didn’t let her face cringe. She couldn’t help but add, “I want to be here.”

“There’s not a doubt in my mind that you do.” Jazz tilted his head down and pulled his mouth as straight as it could be. “Your application speaks for itself, and every interaction we’ve had has proved my suspicions of you right. I know you want this ‘cause anyone else with your state of mind would’ve quit by now.” He leaned in, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever it is you’re holding onto so dearly, you gotta let it go. If that’s someone’s words or judgement or youth’s imagination of how life oughtta be, let go of it.”

Jazz leaned back, unfurling his arms to show her his hands. They were balled into fists, at first, until he slowly opened them as he spoke. “To finally release this thing that’s got all your attention is going to help you see right where you are—” the hands fell, motioning to the ground between them “—and let you feel it. Take a moment. Take a breath. Take five—ten minutes to be alone with whatever you’re hanging onto, and start the hard process of saying goodbye to it.”

She didn’t dare protest. How could she? A commanding officer was ordering her to pause, and so she nodded.

Jazz smiled, glowing more than the sun setting behind him. “Really be sure you got a handle on your cool before tomorrow. We’ll be showing you something that’ll change your life.”

She felt her head cock to the side in confusion. As if there was anything at this point that could faze her numbness. But she’d shared more than enough with this man already. “Thank you.”

“It’s a pleasure, honest.” Jazz waved his hands at her like he wanted to both push her away and bring her in for an embrace. “I’d hug you if I could.”

Before she could ask what that could possibly mean, Jazz was several strides away from her, heading back to the dorms.

A part of her followed after Jazz. It must not have been vital because her entire being seemed to lift without its weight. Maybe it was meant to steady her. Maybe it was there to keep her sane or keep her from own thoughts. Regardless, in its absence was a peace she hadn’t experienced since…she couldn’t remember when.

Five minutes. Jazz ordered her to take five minutes. She could do that.

She’d seen some kind of advice on Instagram or Tumblr once. The 3-3-3 Method, the person had called it. You were supposed to close your eyes and name three things you hear. Then open them and name three things you see. Then move three parts of your body. It was a way of calming nerves or anxiety or something. As far as she was concerned, it would be a decent way to spend five quiet minutes.

Her eyes closed with a bit of resistance despite how tired she felt. Some wind rushed past her ears. One. A car engine was rumbling off in the distance. Two. Someone back at the compound was yelling. Three.

Deep breath in and out.

Opening her eyes was just as difficult. Darkness gave way to the dirt ground. It was dusty and pale, even for a desert. One. Looking up revealed the many mountains surrounding the base. What their names were or where she was exactly were details she didn’t have access to. But the peaks rolled along the horizon like massive blue sand dunes. Two. The sky looked like a work of art. So many colors streaked across the canvas without a cloud or nearby smokestack smothering them. Three.

In and out.

Her shoulders rolled back. One. In doing so, she noticed an ache in her back that demanded stretching. She clasped her hands, lifted them high above her head, and leaned back and forth until the tension eased. Two. Some instinct bent her over. Again, she stretched out her spine, this time by reaching for the ground. Three.

In. Out.

In the exhale, she folded her arms atop her head. The skin of her scalp was smoothed by beads of sweat, so she ran her hands across its surface, massaging along the way. Tension moved beneath her fingers. She chased it, determined to push it away.

That was how she ended up standing there on the outskirts of a military base in the dark with her hands over her face. Just breathe, she told herself. And with every exhale, she imagined that perfection she dreamed of escaping in her breath.

It was a start. And it was enough for now.

This wasn’t exactly what she’d applied for, but by God was it thrilling.

Jazz, in all his robotic glory, stood before her and three other recruits to explain what their roles now were. They would be the new wave of human-Autobot Spec Ops members working primarily with him. The goal: track and sabotage enemy activities. The enemy being other robotic organism called Decepticons.

Where this was all taking place, none of them were allowed to know exactly. Not Area 51 as she had guessed, much to Jazz’s humor. But they were somewhere in the deserts of Nevada.

“Have your minds been thoroughly blown yet?” Jazz asked with a cocky grin. Their group just laughed nervously.

A transport was waiting to take the four of them to the actual base. At Jazz’s curt nod, though, she lingered behind. “Change my life, huh?” she teased.

Jazz laughed as he crouched beside her. “I’m available for hugs now.”

How could she say no to that smile? The way Jazz grinned down at her with open arms shattered her numbness for the briefest of moments. She felt something. It was overwhelming, but knowing this person was thinking of her in a positive light—that feeling warmed her to her fingertips.

So of course, she let Jazz pick her up, bring her to his chest, and gently wrap his hands around her. And she, in turn, stretched her arms across his metal chest. “Thank you,” she muttered. Whether to God or to Jazz, she didn’t really know.

Jazz’s chest shook as he laughed. “Don’t thank me yet. We got a lot of work to do.”

The water stung her face in the best possible way. The chill of it seeped into her skin, willing her eyes to open and her brain to turn on.

The face staring back at her reflected as much. There were still dark circles under her eyes, but the rest of her face was a vibrant and warm brown. Like the desert sky at sunset, she thought. So many colors all blending together into one cohesive painting all framed by the shape of mountains.

She had to giggle at herself. Comparing her hair to mountains—how strange it was. But the metaphor worked in a way. The tight curls of her short afro were still a chaotic mess. Eventually, she’d have to trim it or shape it. For now, though, she was just enjoying having hair at all. Unregulated, thick hair.

She and her reflection parted ways while she got dressed. Her options were limited to two different sized uniforms, so getting ready was hardly time consuming. She ran her hands over her first uniform before removing the second from its hanger. One day she’d fit in the first again. But she was content in the larger size for the time being. Honestly, if the worst side effect of antianxiety meds were weight gain, she’d gladly take it. Because what really was the difference between a medium and a large if the symbols dawning both no longer weighed her soul down?

Once last check in the mirror. Just to get a good look at the new curves of her body, shape of her hair, and unique Spec Ops logo on her right shoulder. Not a perfect sight, but it made her smile.

She found Jazz wandering the halls “patrolling for moral” as he always did on Friday mornings. They walked together until the rec room came into sight and Jazz crouched down. “New mission.”

She laughed, pushing at his ped for him to stand back up. “I’m not socializing.”

“Nah, fam, he ain’t about it either.” Jazz motioned to someone walking out the rec room. “We’re meeting up with a friend of mine.”

There was no getting out of Jazz’s attempts to socialize her, so she smiled and waited for the man to approach them. The closer he came, the better she could make out the softness of his features. He had kind eyes despite the depth of his irises’ darkness. His hair was thick and similarly dark, but he had a sweet glow about him, especially once he smiled. A bit shy in the corners but no less inviting.

“Hello Jazz,” the man said with a teasingly tired tone. To her, he extended his hand in greeting. “Muzhir Qadir. I take it you’re new?”

“Navi Williams,” she greeted, taking his offered hand and giving it a firm shake. “And no, I’ve been in Ops for about three months.”

“Ah, you’re part of Jazz’s cohort,” Muzhir laughed. “No wonder I haven’t met you. That team trains 24/7.”

“Doesn’t help she’s antisocial,” Jazz chimed in. “Figured I need to get her out more.” He poked Navi’s arm playfully. “You know. Since your only friends are cars,” he said as he started folding into one.

Navir delivered a kick to his bumper before the mech could drive off. Jazz just giggled and sped away, leaving her with a stranger.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know why he singled you out for that.” Muzhir shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, grinning all the while. “Most of my friends are also cars. Then again, we do have a bit of a group forming. Of humans, I mean.”

“You’ve been here a while?”

“About a year.” Muzhir removed his hand from his hair to motion at a few people huddled against a wall in the rec room. “We have a guy who’s only been here a week or so. He’d be glad to meet another newbie.”

The way he looked at her reminded Navi of Jazz. The kind smile, the friendly cock of the head—it was no wonder the two were friends.

Well, she supposed there was no harm in being a little social. “I’d love to meet him.”

“Great!” Muzhir gestured for her to follow as he walked off in the group’s direction. “Do you know any ASL?”

She shrugged. “I learned how to spell out my name once. Other than that, no.”

“Perfect! I don’t know anything either, so we can learn together.”

Chapter Text

Humans were weird. Tegan had known that their whole life, but every so often, they let their guard down just enough to get comfortable. Then bam! Some jerk reminded them how freakish people could be.

Case in point: buff military dudes all riled up about what was in the nonexistent pants of their alien comrades.

Seriously, what was there to know? So Jazz kept flipping between calling his partner she and he. So Ratchet and Wheeljack both identified as men and liked to sit on each other. What did it matter to anyone how these freaking aliens referred to themselves?

Maybe they were bias. Tegan had to admit they had a bit of a grudge against such rudeness. Which was why they’d kept their mouth shut every time a remark was made their way or towards one of the big robots. They could handle it, and so could most Autobots.

Most. Red Alert, however, was not like most Autobots.

The head of security was a recluse, preferring to hide away in the monitor room for months on end rather than socialize. From what Tegan gathered, he’d always been that way. Hence why they gravitated to the skittish mech in the first place. Especially when Inferno was around (which was most of the time), Red Alert was a pleasant, shy soul who worked as passionately as he cared. And that care was indiscriminate. As was his paranoia.

 “I don’t much care for crowds,” Red muttered looking like a large child afraid to venture in a dark room full of monsters.

Tegan couldn’t blame the poor mech. But with Inferno out on some mission and Tegan unable to lift an energon cube, this was their only option. “I’m sure if we lay low no one’ll bother us.”

“You might have that advantage,” Red accused, “I, however, do not.”

As much as they didn’t want to stir up Red’s thoughts, Tegan couldn’t help but ask, “Are your colleagues really that bad?”

“Not mine, per se.” Red halted right before the rec room door and gave the thing a suspicious glance. “I don’t care for yours.”

“Well, then, let’s bet on your people.”

Red frowned. “Gambling is a terrifying sport.”

They shrugged because it was all the answer they could conceive for a moment. “Got to do what terrifies you every now and then. Keeps us motivated to live.”

“Oh, no, I have plenty of motivation.” Red rose to his full height, motioning to the hall they’d just walked down. “Actually, I can wait another cycle for ‘Ferno to return.”

“No, no, no, you are not allowed to starve on my watch!” Tegan fussed as the mech tried to make a run for it. Disappointment was enough to freeze Red in his tracks. “Inferno would kill me.”

“I doubt that.”

“You want to bet?”

If looks could kill, Tegan was sure Red Alert’s angry eyes would have exploded them right then and there.

The two of them walked into the rec room together.

Everything was fine for all of five minutes. Red made it to the energon dispensary without catching a single person’s attention. Tegan climbed up the ladder beside him to wait on the counter. Then some meathead had the nerve to scrunch his face up at them.

What was said was not worth repeating. Tegan managed to get up on Red’s shoulder in time to bang the poor mech’s helm out of a shut down. That sent Red racing back to the monitor room.

It took an hour for Red to finally calm down. “I told you,” he whispered, “this is why I don’t go out there.”

Of course, Tegan didn’t blame him. But holing up in the monitor room for three weeks wasn’t an option. “How about we think up ways we can get people to shut up about you?” When Red nodded, they patted his thigh plating encouragingly. “Alright, obviously people take issue with you and ‘Ferno. Nothing we can do about that.”

Red sputtered before his words finally formed. “I don’t understand! My involvement with Inferno is entirely my own business. It’s never competed with my reputation until now. I mean, some curiosity was always directed at us. But that’s understandable. I hardly understand why Inferno likes me.”

“People get confused by what they don’t understand,” Tegan explained. And because this conversation appeared to be a long one, they sat crisscross atop Red’s thigh. “Not every human here gets that you guys are aliens, so there’s bound to be norms for you that are odd to us.”

Red frowned down at them. “I thought you said some humans engaged in homo-romantic relations or some other such similarity.”

“Doesn’t mean we’re not still arguing over it.” They leaned back on their hands. “Take me for example. You think I don’t get called things?”

“Why would you? Are you not the default?”

“What? No. I’m just as ‘odd’ as you.”

“Well, that is preposterous!” Red huffed like this was some massive slight to his intelligence. “Why wouldn’t neutrality be the norm?”

“Look, to explain that I’ll have to explain to you what sex is.” Tegan waved away that whole conversation topic. “Here’s the over-simplified version: some people have one set of organs, some people have another. We base what we call each other by that. But,” they added when Red looked ready to interrupt, “not all of us fit our organs. Some people use opposite-organ terms. Some people use both. I happen to use neither.” They gave the mech a big smile. “Yeah, I’m neutral. But most of life on Earth isn't. People don’t get what they don’t want to understand.”

Red nodded slowly as if the motion itself could help him comprehend it all. “Humans have two sets of organs?”

Tegan took a deep breath. “Sure, yeah. Has to do with reproduction. One’s for receiving, the other giving.”

“Oh!” Red exclaimed, his blue eyes brightening. “You mean to tell me you don’t have both?”

“I—” They paused, trying and failing to grasp what in the world Red was getting at. “Do—do you have…both?”

“Of course, I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Tegan said, standing up to physically move through this new information. “You have reproductive, um…equipment? Or something?”

Red’s posh look of offence would have made them laugh in any other context. “Do you really believe we’re like any one of your inanimate machines?”

“No, I just didn’t—well, no, I’ve thought about it,” they muttered, then waved off the thought. “I didn’t really think about how you guys come to be. It’s not like I’ve seen any kids around.”

“Fair enough.” Red looked off towards the ceiling for a moment. Talking to Inferno, Tegan assumed based on the little twitches in Red’s face giving off the impression he was listening to someone. “I’ll be similarly brief for both our sakes. Yes, we are capable of producing offspring same as you humans. However, no one person is given the sole responsibility of one biological role. Say Inferno and I were to have a child. Either of us could carry it. So, there’s no need for multiple references. We only need the one.”

“Oh,” they chirped. Because what the hell else could they say? That they were beyond jealous? They were, of course, but explaining the years of confusion and fatigue that came before discovering what it meant to be non-binary was a different topic for a different day.

“And just so I am entirely certain of the security of this information—”

“Yeah, no, I won’t tell a soul.” Tegan thumped their chest for emphasis. “No one needs to know, anyway.”

“Precisely.” Red’s smile was a small gesture, but it was no less charming. All too soon, the mech was frowning again. “I take it, then, that humans misunderstand our default references?”

Tegan just shrugged. “I get it, kind of. We like to know who is and who isn't a possible partner. Like, if I was a woman looking for a man, and everyone around me used the same pronouns as me, it might be confusing. But, like, such a small percentage of us don’t abide by these binary rules. Being confused, I get. Being rude or downright cruel, I don’t have the tolerance for.”

“As you shouldn’t,” Red asserted, eyes narrowing. “We started a whole war over intolerances. They are not to be ignored.” He softened as he wondered aloud, “Though, I would be wrong admitting I’m not tempted to seize a simple solution to my own problem.”

“Hey, we love simple solutions.” Tegan almost clapped their hands together excitedly before remembering how well that went down last time. They’d just calmed Red down. No need to trigger him all over again. “What are you thinking?”

“The issue humans have with me concerns my partnership with Inferno, yes?” After Tegan nodded, he continued. “Well, then, why could I not change my reference? If humans perceive me as feminine and ‘Ferno masculine, then they’d take no further issue with us. And then they’d leave me alone. Yes?”

“I mean,” Tegan droned, thinking it over. “Yeah, we could say you didn’t quite understand English enough to know you should be using she/her pronouns. But—and this is just coming from me and my opinions on this—but your identity is yours. Not some jerk-off human who means nothing to you in the grand scheme of things.” They motioned to themselves. To their chopped-off haircut, lanky frame, and light features. “I confuse people. I know I do. And I’ve spent years of my life trying and failing to conform to what comforted confused people. It made me unhappy.”

“I believe your situation is much different than mine,” Red said softly like a parent speaking on the same level as an upset child. Calmly, compassionately, and seeking to understand. “Your identity is tied to your references. Mine is not. It doesn’t matter to me what you call me, especially not in your alien language and with your alien ways. What will make me immensely happy is to be rid of judgmental eyes.”

“You’re certain?”

Red nodded. “Completely.”

Sure, having Inferno as an escort always helped, but Tegan had to admit Red looked so much calmer. The fear was still there (it’d never truly leave her), but at least this one weight was lifted.

Not a single human made a single comment regarding Red and Inferno. And when the pair chatted idly with the soldiers standing on the dispensary’s counter, the humans seemed perfectly at ease.

That was the only reason Tegan felt alright leaving them with the humans while they ran to grab a snack.

A few people were standing by the snack bar when they approached. Most left as soon as they arrived, though. Which, Tegan assured themself, was perfectly fine. They didn’t care for chatter, anyway.

“Hey! You’re the soldier Red Alert’s fond of.”

Tegan nodded, tucking their lips in to keep from being rude while they visually patrolled the food options.

“I’m Muzhir.” A hand invaded their personal space. It looked course but hung relaxed in the air as it waited for them to take it. “Unless we’ve met already, then I am terribly sorry.”

“No,” they rushed out, seizing the offered hand. As expected, the skin was rough but the grip oddly soothing. They could slip out it if they wanted to. But looking up at the man attached to it, they found they didn’t really want to.

Soft. The man looked soft. From his shaggy, tussled hair to the easy grin he sported to the deep brown of his eyes.

“No,” they repeated. “We haven’t met. I’m Tegan Hoffman.”

“Lieutenant Muzhir Qadir.” He gave their hands a firm shake before releasing them. “So, you are Red Alert’s friend?”

“I suppose so.” Tegan motioned to the couple still standing by the energon dispensary. “I think they adopted me, if I’m being honest.”

“Probably,” Muzhir laughed in a tone as sweet as his smile. “Some of the Autobots have a tendency to recruit us. It’s a compliment of the highest order, especially from Red Alert.” He shook his head, then ran a hand through his thick hair. “Is he alright? I know he’s shy, but we don’t see him that often.”

“She’s doing better now,” Tegan asserted, trying not to sound too defensive in their subtle correction.

Muzhir didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, Allah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize she’d changed her pronouns. Has that helped?”

“A lot, actually. Though it’s definitely more social than personal.”

“People can be mean.” He laughed again, but his voice lacked that same hint of humor. “Not everyone though.”

“Enough to warrant her shyness.”

“Yours as well?” Muzhir shook his head. “I don’t mean any disrespect by that. I just wanted to see how interested you might be in joining a decent group of humans.”

Tegan couldn’t help their frown. Looking over their shoulder at Inferno and Red may have helped to hide their immediate discomfort, but they doubted Muzhir would stay ignorant to it. The man seemed pleasant enough, if a little forward. “I’ll admit, Red and I get along for a reason.”

“That’s why I’m offering.” Muzhir’s shy smile drug their gaze right back to him. “It’s a small group of people who actually take the time to understand our alien friends.”

Tegan took a deep breath. It was inevitable, the awkwardness of announcing themself. Had to be done, though, if a social situation was actually going to happen. “My pronouns are they/them.”

“Cool.” Muzhir ran a hand through his hair again, tugging at it a bit. “If you’re worried about that, I’d bet you’ll be fine. There’s me—the brown Muslim guy—a black lesbian gal, and a deaf Korean guy. Having you around would be as normal as a Tuesday for us.”

Tempting. Oh, so, tempting. Tegan glanced back at Red and Inferno just to see if they gave off a reason to stay by their sides. But the couple had grabbed their cubes and were patiently waiting for them to return. “You’d introduce me now?”

“Unless you have other obligations.” Muzhir chuckled. “We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Except for Navi. Her schedule’s pretty random, but that comes with being in Spec Ops.”

Tegan looked between the soft-spoken man and the Autobot couple waiting on them. In the end, they couldn’t deny that kind smile. “Give me a minute to let Red and Inferno know I’m staying here with you.”

They didn’t wait to hear his reply. Red and Inferno noticed them jogging over and started to meet them half-way.

“New friend?” Inferno teased wearing a big, knowing grin.

Red, however, was far more on edge. Tegan didn’t waste time waiting for her barrage of questions. “Lieutenant Muzhir Qadir. He wants to recruit me to his unit or friend group, something to that effect.” They waved away Red’s concerns casually. “He seems genuine. But get that look off your face, Inferno.”

“What look?” the larger mech asked, feigning innocence. “I didn’t say nothing.”

“Lieutenant Qadir has been vetted. He is safe company. Are you remaining here with him, then?” At Tegan’s nod, she thinned her mouth into a tight line. “Report every hour with your status. If you fail to report, I will assume you have been murdered and proceed with an investigation.”

“Every hour, on the hour.” Just to prove their point, Tegan tapped at the watch Red had given them to sound off a status ping. “I’ll keep you posted on this friendly—” they pointed accusingly at a snickering Inferno “—outing.”

Red hummed. “Perhaps it would be best we monitor you directly—”

“Yeah, no.” Inferno turned and grabbed his partner by the waist, hoisting Red up with one arm. “You’re just gunna watch them from the camera feed.” He gave Tegan a curt wave as he walked off with a muttering Red. “Have fun with your ‘friend’, kiddo!”

Tegan wanted to yell back. Really, they did. But a smile spread across their face instead as they walked back over to the patiently waiting Muzhir. “My robot parents say I’m allowed to stay.”

Muzhir laughed. “Glad for it. Let me introduce you to my friends.”

Chapter Text

“Put your thumb to your palm.”

Tegan bit their lip as they did as instructed, looking hesitantly at their hand.

“That’s right,” he encouraged. “Now pinky out.”

“Like a proper Brit,” Navi teased in an over-exaggerated accent. The ploy worked, bringing a smile to Tegan’s tense face.

“Now,” he signaled and held up his own hand. “Wave it.” If only to keep the light humor going, he tried to mimic Navi’s accent. “Like you’re waving to the Queen.”

All three of his companions laughed at that, though it was Muzhir who politely shook his head at him. “You cannot do accents, my friend.”

“Can’t mimic what I hear very well.” He shrugged and repeated the sign. “Like this.”

Tegan sucked in a fit of laughter to regain their bearings. Thumb to palm, pinky out, then swoop.

“Perfect!” he cheered and nearly threw his hands up to signal his praise. “Now, you can sign my name.”

Tegan grinned, swooping their hand again. “That’s so cool! How did you come up with it? Or is there, like, a sign for Jasper?”

“No, not for Jasper. And I didn’t come up with it. A friend in grade school gave it to me.” Jasper held up his hand again, this time as a closed fist with just the pinky jutting out. “J,” he translated before unfurling his hand. His fingers fit together, and his thumb pressed into his palm. “And B. Put them together to get my initials JB,” he explained, swooping through his name again.

Tegan nodded, but he didn't miss their swift glance to the name tag on his jacket.

“Jasper-Bass Lee.” He underlined his name as he read it aloud, ignoring the label below it warning strangers of his hearing impairment. “Friends can call me JB.”

Their mouth hung open in understanding. “Honestly, had you not mentioned it, I never would have guessed you were deaf.”

Not for the first time, JB smiled through the comment. “Years and years of speech therapy and hearing aids.”

Navi snickered, her bright smile squinting her eyes. “That’s something to look out for with him. He can and will turn his ears off at any time.”

“When it’s convenient,” he corrected and gave his friend a snarky look.

Muzhir muttered something just low enough not to fully register. Fortunate, then, that the man’s face was in JB’s periphery. “That meeting was an exception.”

His friend giggled knowingly. Much louder, Muzhir agreed, “Optimus was being a bit repetitive.”

  “The one last month?” Tegan asked. “About the solar panels?” When the three of them nodded, they rocked back with wide eyes hyperbolizing a memory. “That one was awful.”

JB motioned for an explanation. “I thought you were new.”

“I’ve been here about a year.” Tegan favored him with a wiry smirk. “I just spend most of my time in the security wing with Red and Inferno. Which reminds me,” they backtracked, smirk thinning to a more serious line. “Red has been having fits not knowing what you’re signing. Do you know a good site for tutorials?”

Muzhir scrunched up his face, looking thoughtful. “She can’t download the language?”

“The ‘Bots need an alphabet,” Navi filled in. “Phonics, letters—things that can be written down.”

“You can write descriptions for signs, can’t you?”

JB hummed in consideration before admitting, “I suppose so, but that’s a lot to translate. It’s not like you finger-spell everything.” To prove the point, he signed as he spoke, “Not all the words match English. Not all the signs include their letters—” he signed ‘letters’ then spelled it out “—so not sure how to record sign for a download like spoken English.”

Perhaps the four of them might have pooled their knowledge and resources to invent some way around this persistent barrier if given the proper time and boredom. But alas, an alarm sounded. And JB turned his aids off.

In all honesty, it was convenient. While his friends and the humans and ‘Bots around them all shoved their hands to their ears, JB stood amidst the quiet as a calm observer. Silence didn’t ring in his ears. Rather, a muffling too low to make anything of it kept him company. As did the vibrations in the floor from the alarms blaring and giant ‘Bots getting to their feet.

He couldn’t understand their alien friends’ language, not nearly as well as Muzhir, but expressions were semi-universal.

Ironhide was annoyed. The large mech was barking orders as soon as he barged in the rec room, calling for certain people to head down the hall. Towards the base’s entrance, most likely. The heavy hitters were out on whatever excursion ‘Hide had been on, so only the base-stationed ‘Bots were in here. That made it all the odder that ‘Hide was asking for Perceptor and a few of Ratchet’s medics.

A hand waving in his face brought JB back to his immediate surroundings. Muzhir waited for his attention then slowly spoke, annunciating each word. ‘We’ve been called to Hanger F,’ he mouthed, signing “Cloths-Hanger Nine” alongside it.

Close enough. “Okay,” he yelled. “I’m going to the lab.”

Muzhir didn’t have to say or sign a word. The “I’m so done with your shit” look was perfectly articulate.

“Percy got called. I want to see what’s up.” He waved his friends’ concern away as he began heading for the door. “Anyone asks, tell them the batteries died.”

Navi shoved her fist to her forehead, pinky (and her tongue) out.

No one paid him any mind as he left the rec room and meandered down the hall opposite the way Percy and ‘Hide had gone. He hadn’t lied; no doubt Wheeljack or Brainstorm was still in the lab. Navi may eventually be told what was going on if Jazz thought he needed her, but she was tight-lipped when it came to Autobot secrets. Jackie and Brainstorm, however, could be persuaded.

He'd wandered through a whole host of options for “accidently” getting info out of the scientists by the time he got to the lab.

The room looked empty.

“Hey,” he called out, turning back on his aids. The alarms still rang, but their noise muted once the blast door closed behind him. “It’s JB. Brainstorm?” He squatted to look through the gaps between the lab desks and the floor. No robo-feet. “Jack?” The further he ventured into the massive space, the quieter it appeared.

His hands were thrown up on their own accord. “Beachcomber, maybe? Literally anyone?”

After a few minutes of wandering between lab benches and seeing no one, JB admitted defeat. Whatever was going on, the science crew had been called to fix it. Thus, his one and only source of classified information was out of his reach.

On the bright side, hanging around the empty lab was infinitely better than being couped in the hanger.

Clarity never came, no matter how many times JB poked at the curious event last week. Even Beachcomber seemed to be in the know and unwilling to “break the vibe”.

Pestering eventually got him an audience with Percepter, though. “Look, we can’t say what’s going on because we, ourselves, don’t quiet know what to make of it.” The mech motioned for the room to calm down. “These are strange times. Hold off your questions for the time being.”

“Sure thing, Percy.” To Wheeljack, though, JB signed, “Can you not say more?”

Jackie shook his head.

“Stop that.” Percy frowned at no one in particular. “I know that tone. Wheeljack, do not tell the human anything.”

“I didn’t, Perc, I swear!”

“That’s rude of you.” Perceptor’s frown somehow deepened. Were it not for the hardened welds around his optic-sockets, he might have squinted in anger.

“Sorry,” JB muttered. “I have to be curious.”

“As a scientist, I praise your desire to seek knowledge. But I must caution you.” Percy may not have known where exactly JB was, but that didn’t stop the blind mech from gazing into his soul with a simple switch in tone. “We don’t even know what we’re facing.”

Any other sane individual would have heeded Percy’s warning.

JB decided to “accidently” wander towards the brig.

In his defense, he’d waited a whole two months. That was only four days in Cybertronian time but still. His patience had afforded him fragments of information gradually guiding him to a suspicious person now living in the base. Someone the ‘Bots couldn’t decide was friend or foe.

The brig was usually a black hole filled with humming darkness and phantom sounds. JB had legitimately gotten lost his first week on base and found the haunted wing, along with a sneaky way in. A crack in the base of the wing’s blast door was too small for the likes of Muzhir or Navi or any other fit soldier but not him.

The flashlight he’d brought was immediately shoved in a thigh pocket. The lights were on, revealing a short line of ‘Bot-sized cells that tapered off into the back of the room’s darkness.

In the very first cell stood a mech.

A freakishly huge mech.

JB, even across the hall from the guy, had to crane his head so far back his throat hurt.

Aside from the ridiculous height, the being in the cell seemed calm. Electric blue eyes peered down at him from between the bars, their sheen something soft against the whites and reds of his body. Despite the sheer magnitude of the mech, limbs and shoulders and broad wings worked together for the illusion of someone unassuming.

Above it all, though, was a thought spoken in a universal language. Those eyes, they widened and brightened like a kitten being cornered.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said in as careful a tone he could manage. He hadn’t lied, of course, but if this prisoner was responsible for the science crew’s unease, then he couldn’t naively trust the guy.

The mech’s wings tipped lower behind his back.

“Really, I’m not.” He chanced stepping closer with his hands held up, palms facing the mech. “I was just curious about what was down here.”

A sound vibrated from the mech. Some of it’s clicks and drones were familiar, but most of it bared little resemblance to the other ‘Bots’ native tongue.

“Take it no human language.” His mind stuttered to a pathetic halt as he tried to conjure anything Muzhir had taught him of Standard. “You,” he bit out, “no…end…with me?”

Another sound, this one more familiar.

“Don’t laugh, I’m trying.” Still, he couldn’t help shaking his head. “That’s all I got.”

The mech’s wings tipped up again, peeking out from behind his waist and arms. A shaky arm lifted to press a hand to his chest.

It took JB a moment to figure out what the mech was trying to say. Admittedly, he didn't exactly intend to sign as he spoke. More often than not, doing so confused or distracted whoever he was speaking to. Intent didn’t always matter; his hands still moved through the words sometimes. Like now when he’d indicated himself and his depleted knowledge of language.

“No,” he said by shaking his head and exaggerating a pleading face. “Hurt,” he signed, wincing when his finger tips drew near and calming when the distance grew. “Me. You.”

The mech watched him with a keenness JB had only ever seen in Brainstorm’s eyes. Then he mimicked the signs, complete with the facial expressions.

JB smiled as much with his eyes as his mouth. The mech smiled back, albeit shier.

“Me, JB.” He repeated the signs twice for emphasis. Then, he pointed at the mech with a tilt of his head and curious squint in his eyes.

The mech nodded. For a moment, all he did was look around the cell in search of something. Evidently finding nothing, he shook his head pathetically.

“Try.” The word was given a bit of oomph to get the point across. Just in case, JB added, “I wait,” while glancing at the floor.

Once again, the strange mech searched his surroundings. Realization rushed into his whole being, raising his wings and straightening his form. He pointed up.

JB repeated his questioning face and motioned at the ceiling.

No, that wasn’t it. Up, the mech indicated. Further up.

“Sky?” In case of confusion, he rushed to think of something this mech might understand or associate with the sky. This mech, who clearly had wings of some kind…JB shot his arms out. As he ran around in a circle, he did his best impression of a jet.

The mech was smiling in earnest when he looked back.

“Sky,” he said out loud as he signed. “You.”

A nod. A motion to wait. There was more. The mech held out a hand to prop himself against the cell’s wall all so he could lift up a leg. He pointed to the heel.

Not just a heel. A thruster.

JB repeated the jet sound.

No. The mech wiggled his fingers beneath the thruster like billowing flames.

“Fire.” The sign was greatly exaggerated as if his fingertips were making a bonfire.

The mech spoke something in his clicky language then mimicked the signs. “Sky. Fire. Me.” He smiled just as much with his fluttering wings as his mouth. “You. JB.”

“Me. JB,” he agreed. “And you. Sky. Fire.” The latter two signs were separated bluntly even as he repeated it. Gradually, though, they morphed into one flowing name. The sign for fire circled up like the sky. Refined to one hand, it looked as bright and subtle as the mech smiling down at him. “Skyfire. You.”

Skyfire mimicked his own name as he spoke it in his own tongue.

With how secretive everyone had been, the last thing JB expected was Navi casually telling their little unit about a new neutral.

“He’s old,” she explained over a sip of coffee. Decaf, much to her dismay. “Like ancient old. Before the war old.”

“Ya Allah, what is he doing here, then?”

JB turned his other hearing aid on and leaned in, not even trying to be subtle.

Navi gave him a mocking look but kept talking. “He had no intention of being here. They found him in Antarctica entombed in a glacier. He doesn’t speak a word of Standard.”

Tegan very loudly sipped their coffee. Not decaf.

Ah. They knew something. JB shifted his weight to one arm so his body was essentially held up by the table. He fiddled with his left ear’s aid, moving the speaker out from behind his ear and in Tegan’s direction.

“I cannot say a word.”

Navi grunted. “The big guy in the brig, Tegan. He’s been declassified now that his background checks came up clean.”

“Oh, thank god.” Tegan slammed their cup down. “I have been pouring over incomplete Cybertronian databases with Red trying to figure out what the hell Jetfire is saying.”

JB slowly put the hearing back in place and leaned into his chair.

It was Muzhir’s turn to shoot him a look. “Speak up.”

He shook his head, biting his lip shut.

Muzhir wiggled his fingers at him.

He shoved his hands in his armpits.

“I need you two to be soldiers,” Navi hissed. “Not babies. JB, hands where we can see them dancing.”

“Fine,” JB whined, doing as he was told. “You know, I’m pretty sure you can have at least one cup of coffee.”

“Don’t test me.” She didn’t need to voice her threats. Her eyes said everything for her.

“Alright.” JB sat up straighter. “I met a guy, guys.” When Navi looked ready to chuck the decaf at him, he furiously signed Skyfire’s name. “We’re talking about the flyer locked up in the brig, right?” At Navi’s and Tegan’s nods, he yielded. “His name is Skyfire. We talk.”

“How?” Tegan whined.

“The ‘Bots have been working with him for almost a year.” Navi glared at the contents of her mug like the inferior coffee was the source of all her troubles. “I have been stuck running checks on him for four. Whole. Months. With nothing to turn up but a name.” Her ire glided up until it locked inside JB’s soul. “And you mean to tell me. We got that wrong?”

God, he couldn’t look away from her no matter how much he wanted to. “You got the fire part right.”

The three of them waited about an hour for Navi to cool off. A (proper) cup of coffee and quick jog around the base later, she was as close to herself as she was bound to get. Which meant asking her to keep a secret was dangerous for all parties involved, but JB had to risk it.

“He’s afraid,” he explained. “And lonely. I think there are people he knew who he can’t get in contact with right now. Imagine that.” He placed a hand atop Navi’s wrist to really seal the thought into her. “Imagine you went into a coma tomorrow and woke up a million years later.”

The ploy worked wonders. Navi was a force of nature but, at her core, so very human. A glance between the rings on her finger and the slight poof of her shirt cemented his point more than words ever could.

“You said you talk to him,” Muzhir said, drawing them back to the main topic of conversation. “What about?”

“Nothing, really.” JB shrugged. “That’s why I don’t want this getting out to the ‘Bots. If I’m a distraction for him, then let me be a comfort.”

Tegan shook their head. “Red’s going to freak if she finds out you’ve been sneaking into the brig and talking to an unknown entity.”

Muzhir snorted. “Don’t tell her.”

“She’ll find out. Eventually.” Tegan straightened before pointing at JB. “My silence on one condition.”

He motioned for surrender. “Anything, sure.”

“Get to know Jetfire—or Skyfire. Whatever his name really is. Get a sense of which side he’d prefer to be on and which ‘Bots he’s liable to make friends with. If convert operations get Red results, me and Inferno can get her to overlook secrecy.”

Not the best of deals, but if it meant Skyfire maintained their talks, he’d take it.

Skyfire remained a recluse no matter how often JB tried to get him to the rec room. There was the lab and the barracks. And, on occasion, the blind spot on the roof.

Getting the shuttle up there the first time had been a testy business, but JB would do it a million times over just for the joy spread across Sky’s frame every time the wind hit his wings. Safe from the rest of the base, from people who didn’t speak their own impromptu language, the two of them would talk for hours about nothing at all.

Eventually, curiosity got to the both of them.

Skyfire asked him of his work first. What did he do, why was he always in the lab, where did he come from—the works. JB answered the best he could with what signs Skyfire had learned thus far. He was a scientist, like Perceptor. He worked on a lot of things, mostly space stuff. He came from here, from Earth. No, not this exact place.

“South Korea,” he signed then pointed off to the horizon. It was far from here. “We immigrated to another place, Texas, before I got here. That is why my name is Bass,” he explained, spelling it out. “Bass was the first Asian solider in the air force.” He grinned as he shrugged helplessly. “I was meant to be here. I am a scientist and a soldier.”

Skyfire nodded along, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes and curious flutter in his wings. Even sitting atop the massive mech’s knee and still having to look up at him, the flyer seemed so very small.

“You?” he asked. “Where do you come from? Do you have friends? Or family? Like me?”

For the first time since starting their secret meetings over a year ago, Skyfire frowned sadly.

“No rush,” JB assured, patting the mech’s knee.

“I want to talk.” The flyer’s wings folded down, but he raised his head with a kind of confidence befitting someone of his stature. “I am a scientist. I work on fuel—” energon, JB mentally translated when Sky indicated his own veins to clarify “—on space planets. I have a family.” The frown deepened. “I don’t know if I have a family now. Home is…long sleep.”

JB mirrored the expression in a show of empathy. “I thought you might not know. Can I help?”

Sky hung his mouth open and shook his head as if he wished he knew how to properly answer such a loaded question. “How?” he asked simply then held up his hands in emphasis. “How to sign to look?”

“Names,” he suggested, motioning between them. They had started there once before. Why not again? “Who do you want to find?”

Those big blue eyes shone like a child, all innocence and longing. Skyfire made a motion indicating his chest. An invisible string was drawn between him and some other entity. He then signed two simple words. “My love.”

Oh. For a moment, all JB could do was stare in absolute wonder. How Skyfire had gone so long without asking for his partner, he had no idea. Or perhaps the poor mech had tried to ask for help and the ‘Bots just didn’t understand.

JB nodded, signing “husband” but from his chest rather than head for clarity. “Name?”

Sky shook his head. “Hard to sign. Means more than words.”

“Try.”

With a flutter of his broad wings, Sky looked up. Night was creeping upon them, casting the sky in a vast array of colors and shapes. Sky pointed towards the darker horizon where the clouds were a deep blue and the air a warm navy.

“Night?”

“No, not the sky.” Sky made a fist with his other hand’s fingers acting like little flames bouncing off it.

JB almost signed “star” but thought better of it. The motion likely wouldn’t make sense to the mech. Instead, he squinted as he pointed to a white dot sitting high above them. Whether it was a plane or an actual star didn’t matter. The connection was made.

“We—” Skyfire pointed to the possibly-a-star “—when we long sleep.”

“Huh,” he huffed, gazing at the mech thoughtfully. How interesting to view the night sky as some endless expanse of lost loved ones looking down on you at the most vulnerable time of day. Maybe it wasn’t so poetic for Skyfire, but the thought was still lovely.

“Star,” he signed, indicating the bright orb above them. “And?”

Skyfire laughed, shaking his head. Stifling his giggles, he scrunched his face up like he was emitting a hearty battle cry. As he fake-roared, he signed, “Disobey.”

“Does he not agree with stars?” JB laughed.

“No. Disobey. Do not long sleep.” Sky gazed up at the colors hazing overhead. “Star.” Again, he scrunched up his face to silently roar, this time flattening his wings against his back as much as he could given their sheer size.

Death defier. Whatever this person’s designation was, they were apparently named for their resilience.

JB followed his friend’s gaze to the star hanging above them. Or maybe it was a plane. He couldn’t tell if it was moving or not with how dark it was becoming.

Star…stars were a sign of death, and death was something this person resisted. No, not just resisted. Disobeyed. Disobeyed in an angry way. As if the person would look death straight in the eyes and dare to fight it. To scream out a battle cry so fierce…

His heart skipped a beat. The blood in his veins froze over the moment everything connected far too perfectly.

Starscream. Skyfire was looking for someone named Starscream.

This was obviously a huge misunderstanding. Hence why JB was quick to relocate them to a small conference room not far from their hideaway.

“Don’t ask questions,” JB warned into the phone, a tad breathless as he jogged to keep pace with the shuttle. “Just meet me there.”

He heard rather than saw Navi’s exhaustion as she spoke. “I can’t get out of bed.”

“Get Monica to help you up.”

“What is your rush?” Navi whined.

“What did I say about questions?”

“Well, I’m not heaving myself out of bed unless you tell me why you need my security clearance.”

In his flustered state, he blurted out, “Tegan and Muzhir already agreed to meet me there.”

The line went quiet for a moment. There was a rustling, the faint sound of another woman laughing (likely at Navi’s plight), then a long-suffering sigh. “Is this about the neutral?”

“I made headway with him. I just need to confirm something.”

“Fine.” Navi’s voice was strained as she said, “Give me a minute. I’m not about to go anywhere with a ‘Bot I don’t know or trust with my daughter’s life. But if Tegan’s there, I’ll send them a code on our channel.”

“You are a wonderful, incredible friend—”

“Shut up.” The line went dead.

JB slowed his rushed pace to fiddle with his phone. Once he found the right name, he tapped it and shoved the phone back up to his mouth. Tegan’s gruff voice eventually invaded his hearing aids.

“Hey,” he breathed, “meet me in Conference Room 11. Don’t ask questions. Navi’s about to send you a code. Go with it.”

Muzhir, Tegan, and Skyfire all stared at each other for the longest time while JB tried to get the projector working.

“So,” Muzhir drawled, running a hand through his thick hair. “You are Skyfire,” he signed.

The flyer’s wings perked up. “I am Skyfire. What is your name?”

“M U Z H I R.” Muzhir smiled in his soft way that made complete strangers melt. “Don’t worry. Call me M.”

Tegan held up the sign for “T” and indicated themselves. Pleasantries dealt with, they leered at JB over their laptop. “Why exactly do you need intel on Decepticon High Command?”

“Because I think Skyfire is either confused or way more involved than we thought.” The projector finally sprung to life, displaying Tegan’s laptop background. “Bring up Starscream’s profile.”

“Starscream?” Muzhir’s hand rung its way into his hair again. The messy hair and stunned expression fit so perfectly with his baggy sweatpants and sweatshirt. “He knows something about Starscream?”

“Worse,” JB muttered. He walked to the edge of the robo-sized conference table where Skyfire was standing, patiently waiting. “Good?”

Sky didn’t answer. His face just fell apart seemingly at the mere thought of receiving help. “Star-disobey is not here.”

JB let his mouth thin into a tight line and furrowed his brow. “How do you know?”

“Feeling.” Skyfire pressed against his chest more insistently as he shook his head. “Not here. Long.”

“How much do you feel?” he asked, exaggerating the plea in his face.

“Small.” The poor mech’s wings drooped down for emphasis. “Small feeling. Live. Not here. I know that.”

The light streaming from the projector had changed colors. As much as JB wished he could gain more from talking, showing Skyfire was likely their best way of confirming his suspicions. So, he pointed to the wall behind Skyfire.

It was like reliving Navi’s wedding all over again, watching someone of such towering presence keen at the sight of someone they loved. Skyfire made a droning sound the moment he turned around and faced the profile. Starscream’s most recent picture was plastered beside the ‘Con’s description. The ‘Con’s wings, face, even hands were delicately traced by Sky’s much larger fingers.

Eventually, Sky turned around. And for the first time since joining the Autobot cause, JB saw a Cybertronian cry.

“Star-disobey,” Sky signed then planted a hand atop image-Starscream’s chest, curling his fist possessively. “Where?”

Muzhir muttered something just outside his range of hearing. That was the only warning JB received of his friend approaching him before his shoulder was grabbed. “How does he know Starscream?”

For several long seconds, he just floundered. What could he possibly say that was any more believable or easier than the truth? “I think they’re married.”

Tegan’s sputtering of anxiety called Muzhir away. That and the overall energy in the room seemed to clue Skyfire in that something was very wrong. Gone was the mech’s relief. In its place were hiked up wings and a troubled frown.

What else was he to say but the truth? “Wrong side.”

They decided to wait one week. Theoretically, that gave Skyfire enough time to come to terms with the situation and decide what to do.

“I don’t know what we expected,” Muzhir breathed, hand in his hair. He looked like something out of a renaissance painting what with the lamp light illuminating his hand and hints of his face and the chair he lounged in a deep burgundy.

Navi looked like she wanted nothing more than to bang her head into the couch cushions but miraculously resisted the urge. Instead, she shifted her weight to sit more upright. “For him to leave by now. Lord knows I would have.”

“Leave to where?” Tegan gestured to the nearest wall, presumably in the direction of the desert outside. “We don’t know where the ‘Cons are stationed. How would Skyfire?”

Navi pressed a hand to her forehead. “He said he knows Starscream is alive?” When JB nodded, she huffed humorlessly. “They’re probably bonded. That’s how ‘Hide and Jazz keep up with their spouses.”

“Red said it’s like sensing Inferno’s essence.” Tegan shook their head. “They can kind of talk through it without saying words. I’m not quite sure, but I know Red mentioned it can be dampened.”

“Maybe a bond can fade with time,” Muzhir posited. “I don’t see why Skyfire would want to leave here, where he knows he’s safe, to seek out someone who’s liable to have moved on by now.” He gave Navi a somber gaze. “He does know how long he’s been away?”

“Kind of. We tried to let him know there was a war as gently as we could. Poor thing apparently woke up confused and skittish. Jazz and them were worried he’d die of stress or go on a panicked rampage.” She winced, pressing her hand to the side of her abdomen.

Muzhir rolled to his feet. Like a freaking gremlin, he crept over to Navi to fist bump her swollen stomach. “Shush, Mel. Adults are talking.”

Navi pushed him away, but she couldn’t hide her smile completely. “To answer the question, yes, he does know it’s been a few million years.”

JB sighed, trying and failing to wrap his mind around such a long time. “I don’t think it’s as simple as we’d like to think. Maybe Starscream moved on after so long. Maybe bonds don’t work like that. I don’t know, and somehow, I doubt the ‘Bots will be very open to discussing it.”

“This is…” Tegan took a deep breath. “This is a massive breach in security. The only thing keeping me from telling all this to Red Alert is this: Skyfire had months to fly away, and he didn't. To me, that proves he legitimately had no idea what Starscream has been up to.”

“You don’t think he’s been feeding intel to Starscream?” Navi asked. When Tegan confidently shook their head, she scrunched up her nose. “We still have to tell the ‘Bots.”

“Tell them what?” JB motioned to the four of them. “That we’ve been conspiring with Starscream’s husband?” He fumbled over his words before settling on, “Sky had the chance to leave this week. He didn't. He hasn’t even left the barracks. If he is planning something, somehow, then let me talk with him about it.”

Tegan hopped to the edge of their seat. “Do you think you can convince him to become an Autobot?”

“I think I can figure out where his mind is.”

It took him a week to convince Skyfire to emerge from his self-imposed imprisonment in the barracks. It took another month to reach the hideaway.

“I don’t want to talk.”

JB patted the bit of Sky’s plating he could reach from the mech’s shoulder. The signal was a familiar one, so Sky should have looked his way to read his signs. The flyer just stared straight ahead.

At least he’d gotten the poor guy to go outside. The fresh air probably did more good than talking ever could.

Another week came and went. JB had to remind himself time moved differently for his friend. One week wasn’t even a whole day to Skyfire.

After another month, though, his patience began wearing thin.

“We need to talk about your husband.”

Skyfire just closed his eyes. “No. Not now. Wait.”

There was nothing he could really do about the Starscream-situation the following week. Navi had the baby, and without much else to do at-base, he and Muzhir volunteered to help her and Monica out for a few days.

Two days after a week of playing with a newborn, Skyfire approached him with the sternest expression JB had ever seen a ‘Bot wear. He didn't ask questions, just hopped on the flyer’s offered hand and let himself be carried to the hideaway.

Instead of stopping amidst the rocks in their usual place, Skyfire jumped off the roof.

He knew, in his rational mind, that the whole “thing” with the aliens was their ability to morph into vehicles. Irrationally, however, he was scared shitless when Skyfire’s body puffed out and moved around him until he was suddenly in the middle of a cargo hold rather than a robotic hand. If Skyfire could see inside himself, the mech refused to acknowledge him no matter how frantically JB signed and shouted.

Tempting though it was to call a friend, he kept his phone in his pocket. Skyfire trusted him; he could return the favor.

They landed an hour or so later. JB hung onto his sanity as the hold encasing him split apart before morphing back into Skyfire.

“Scary,” he signed, making sure his smile seemed genuine even as he wobbled unsteadily in Sky’s hand.

“I know. Sorry.” Sky canted his head at him and lowered the hand he’d signed with. “You speak this language?”

Irrational, but JB swore Skyfire’s voice was as booming and soothing as the flyer himself. Had it not been for, well, everything, he might have been more blown away by it. As he was, all he could do was sign, “How?” before forcing the word out his mouth, as well. “You can speak English?”

“Among other languages.”

JB shoved his hands in his hair and tugged at the strands. “Like Standard?”

“I—” Sky’s gaze dropped, along with his wings. “I woke to a crowd of strangers speaking at me as if I were a test subject. I do speak Standard, yes, but however it is those people spoke…it might as well have been a foreign tongue, at the time.”

Before JB could get a word in, Sky signed for him to wait. “Eventually, yes, I deciphered their speech patterns. But you understand what it is to be so suddenly and totally surrounded by those who look and sound nothing like you.”

How could he deny it? He’d already told Sky of the land his parents had come from, even some of the ways people looked at him like he was some kind of alien. “You lied,” was all he could manage. Because it was true. He’d given away so much of his time and life to someone he thought was in need of him.

“To the Autobots. Not to you.” Sky brought him closer. “My friend, no one asked me if I could speak Standard. They didn’t ask if they’d said my name correctly. I was woken by strangers, thrown in jail, and told my home—all I’d ever known—was killed in their war. But you asked me my name. You sought my company when no one else would. And when I begged to know the fate of my loved ones, you didn’t cast away my hopes with images of a ruined Vos. You asked me who I loved and how you might help me find them.”

It was all so much all at once, but JB was no stranger to observations. He didn't miss when Skyfire looked beyond him. Instinct had him following his friend’s gaze.

Starscream looked nothing like his profile. Sure, the technical details were the same, but there was an atmosphere to the mech that pictures failed to capture. There was no scowl, no blazing eyes, no sharp claws curled for battle. There was only a sleek flyer standing barely at Skyfire’s waist whose face was as cool as the breeze in the air.

“JB,” Skyfire signed. Out loud, he introduced, “This is my partner, Starscream.”

No words suited the moment. JB opted for awkwardly waving at what should have been an enemy.

Starscream flicked his wings. Jagged, hesitant motions brought his hands out from behind his back. As he spoke, he signed along fluently. “Thank you.”

What exactly the pair spoke of, JB hadn’t the slightest idea. He was set aside on a rock and quickly forgotten about as the two lovebirds chittered away in the language Skyfire had so often used.

In the meantime, he tried to figure out where he was to no avail. The place was too green to be the deserts of Nevada, too cold to be anywhere south, and too mountainous to be, like, Minnesota. Wherever here was, the only way back was within Skyfire. He just had to hope his friend remembered humans live life a lot faster than them.

Dusk was setting in when Skyfire and Starscream finally returned to him. The former extended a hand so that the three of them could speak on the same level. Which also meant Sky had to stand on one knee.

“You’ve been here before.”

Starscream did a poor job hiding his sneer. Skyfire, for his part, didn’t react. “We have,” Sky said softly. “Once I realized I’d woken up on the wrong side of this conflict.”

Of all the times to have his hearing aids on… “So, you’re leaving the Autobots.”

“On the contrary, human.” Starscream leaned back like a showman with his hands on his hips and a bedazzled grin splitting his face in two. He sounded more grating than the ‘Bots described. “I’ve grown rather tired of Megatron’s antics and Prime’s ideocracy. It’s high time I lead my own faction.”

“Of what?” he blurted out before reality slapped him in the face.

“Of Vos, dimwit. Keep up.”

“He doesn’t speak Vosian, Star.”

The flashy flyer had the audacity to look astonished. “You learned his hand-speak, and he didn’t return the favor?”

Sky shuttered his eyes very deliberately. “Not the point, love. Are you after telling him the plan or keeping your shite to yourself?”

Starscream’s wings threw a hissy fit as he muttered something in the clicky language.

“English, love.”

“I’ll say a grand many things in English.” With just as much fever, Starscream collected himself. “I am telling this to you, human, only so that you might aid Sky when the time comes to convince your comrades of my sincere intentions.”

For all that he spoke with grander, the relaxed plating in the flyer’s face gave JB peace of mind. Whatever was going on, Starscream was being entirely truthful. So, he nodded.

“The Decepticons have lost their way under Megatron’s leadership. With the return of Vos’s, eh…queen or king, whatever—with the return of Skyfire by my side, all of Vos can once again fall in line behind me, their true Winglord.”

“Wait,” JB signed, turning to his friend. “You’re a king?”

Skyfire shrugged. “Technically Star is. I’ve married in.”

“You married a king?”

“I married a rather lovely scientist.” Skyfire grinned over at the smaller, perturbed flyer waiting impatiently for them to stop talking. No one could resist melting under that soft gaze, though. Just as Starscream seemed to relax, Skyfire’s grin turned ruthless. “Now what are you after, mighty king?”

Starscream’s wings fluttered happily. Not looking away from Sky, he proclaimed, “I will put an end to this war.”

Chapter Text

Deciding to have a baby while still on active duty may not have been the wisest of choices, but Navi couldn’t find a reason to care. Melody was precious. Absolutely, undeniably precious with her chunky cheeks and scrunched up little legs. And her nose—good God, it was so fat. Monica loved peppering it with kisses, and Melody sang so beautifully under such wonderful attention. The neutral’s discovery may have pushed their plans back a few weeks, but every single delay, ache, and bad day was worth it just to feel the weight of their baby snuggled in her arms.

Jazz made an indescribably noise, not that he could help it. His voice box seemed to have short-circuited the moment he laid eyes on little Melody.

“Remind me,” he finally managed to say. “I want to convince Prowler to get us one.”

Monica made a confused face, so Navi quickly shifted topics. “How much longer until his ship arrives?”

“Few months, I think. Needs to be much sooner.” Jazz grinned like an absolute dope, especially with the way he was laying on the floor, front-down and legs kicking behind him. “Huh, Mel? I’m gunna need to tell my Prowler to get here sooner, so we can get you a little friend, and you two can be tiny and chunky together.”

“They can have babies?” Monica whispered, sounding more curious than concerned.

Navi shifted Mel’s sleepy weight so Jazz could see her drowsy little face better. “They are just as confused with us.”

Jazz snorted. “I still got no clue how ibuprofen works, and frankly, I couldn’t care less. It got us a sweet Melody, didn’t it?”

“Case in point,” Navi muttered, trying not to laugh at the idea of ibuprofen getting her pregnant.

Whatever her initial concerns may have been in deciding to have her family housed at the Autobot’s base, they were immediately forgotten the moment Melody sleepily took Jazz’s offered digit. Navi had seen with her own eyes the horrible things Jazz could do to people with those hands. Not a hint of it existed in her daughter’s company.

Time moved differently as a mom. Where moments with Monica were once franticly calm, there was now a restless impatience. Melody grew both too quickly and not quickly enough. Nothing exemplified this complicated better than the betting pools the ‘Bots made over their little girl’s milestones. As entertaining as it was to watch Cliff cheer on an oblivious Mel to say his name, Navi lost sleep over the sadness of losing her tiny snuggler.

Before any part of her could registered what happened, Mel was walking on two shaky legs with only a little help from her moms.

Her daughter was ten months old when the ‘Cons made a devastating strike on an outpost in New Mexico. Navi had to shove her in Monica’s arms as she was called to the Command Center. There alongside Muzhir, she shifted into automatic-mode, taking orders and giving them out to the outpost’s human units however Optimus saw fit.

That was the first time she really questioned having her family here. When she watched Ratchet fight furiously with Wheeljack over the comms in an effort to change his partner’s mind. But Wheeljack was always impulsive. It shouldn’t have shocked her as much as it did that Jackie pulled the pin from a grenade to bring the whole outpost down on top if him and whatever ‘Cons were still inside. Seeing Ratchet collapse, though, did something to her.

One outpost and one engineer down. Ratchet lived, but the old medic didn’t seem the same. Less grumpy, oddly enough. Like he just didn’t have the energy to care to be mad. Or sad. Or anything really.

“I don’t want that to be you,” she admitted in a hushed voice so as not to wake the baby sleeping between them.

Monica cupped her jaw, rubbing soothing circles at the base of her ear. “If it comes to that, know that I will live every single moment after you grateful to God for the time we had.” She smiled with her sleek, dark eyes. “Wouldn’t be hard. I’m already doing that now.”

Mel was walking all on her own when the new Autobots arrived.

For human safety, they watched the ship and all its occupants arrive from some scaffolding set up at the base’s entrance. Navi wasn’t too worried with Muzhir and JB standing beside Mel and with Tegan monitoring everything from afar. Their company let her enjoy seeing Jazz’s family for the first time.

It was easy to spot them from the crowd. Even ignoring Jazz’s obvious tunnel vision, the grey mech with doors for wings was a blaring sight, the mech having taken off ahead of everyone to collide with Jazz.

“Bluestreak,” Navi explained, pointing Monica in the grey mech’s direction.

“Gotcha. Adopted, right?”

Supposedly. But the moment Jazz locked with the second mech, Navi questioned her certainty. Prowl looked exactly like Jazz described with doorwings, a black-and-white paint job, and elegant features. He also looked identical to Blue.

The thought was swiftly set aside in favor of enjoying such a sweet display. Blue had moved on to greeting other friends, but Prowl and Jazz remained sealed together. They slowly danced, heedless of the crowd parting around them.

And it was quite the crowd. Navi tried to make out who might be talking to who purely based on conversations with the ‘Bots.

One mech had stopped moving. That was how she noticed him initially, and upon inspection, his blaring red and yellow design looked a lot like how she’d imagined Hot Rod.

Her heart stopped.

As quickly as memory flooded her, her sight landed on Ratchet. The medic was still standing on his own on the outskirts of the mingling crowd. He’d started inching his way towards the mech—who had to be Hot Rod—but with every step forward on Ratchet’s part, Hot Rod took two steps back. A tall blue mech tried to keep Hot Rod from outright taking off, but nothing stopped the kid from running away.

Ratchet called out a name in Standard, running after him.

Navi tightened her grip on Mel’s shoulders. Her daughter whined, but she refused to let go.

Dark thoughts weren’t allowed to simmer for very long. Jazz’s parties were always week-long affairs (for the humans, that is), and this one was sure to be no different. Hence why none of her unit were too concerned with meeting all of the new ‘Bots today. They could take their time mingling with old and new friends while Mel showed off how to blow bubbles, and Blaster proved he could, in fact, tastefully censor rap. All the while, the humans could enjoy the show.

Cybertronians had a strange way of dancing. It made sense with how morph-y their bodies were to incorporate bizarre movements and transformations in the way they danced.

Watching Jazz and Prowl dance was an entirely different experience. There was something oddly sensual in the way the two moved in tune with the other, like there were magnets both pulling them together and keeping them a breath apart. They seemed perpetually on the cusp of kissing and falling into one another with their optics wide and dimmed and their hands welded at the palms.

She could have watched the pair for hours on end if she didn’t need to pee every time she sneezed. Such was life after having a baby.

It was in heading back to the party from the bathrooms that darker thoughts seized her once more. Call it morbid fascination or a mother’s need to see the worst case scenario. Whatever drew her to the cemetery, Navi didn’t try to stop it.

The burying of the dead was apparently a universal thing. Some Cybertronian cultures treated funeral rites a bit differently, but the concept of providing a final resting place to loved ones remained. So, when bodies accumulated on Earth, the Autobots began burying their dead on Earth. Which, of course, included plaques for those whose bodies were never recovered, like Wheeljack.

Navi looked on from the open doorway at the ‘Bots still mourning in the graveyard. Most, if not all, of the newcomers had trekked through already, but Hot Rod hadn’t moved from Jackie’s grave. The tall blue mech was still standing beside him seeming quiet and comforting to the young, conflicted mech.

“Eavesdropping?”

Had she not recognized the gruff voice immediately, she might have panicked. “Had to see if there were any stragglers.”

Ratchet was surprisingly quiet in moving to sit beside her, his legs long enough to reach the ground on the other side of the door ledge. “I don’t know how to help him.”

Vulnerability settled awkwardly in Ratchet’s voice. These were difficult circumstances, though, so Navi tried to give him some kind of advice. Ultimately, her mind failed her. “You two adopted him, right?”

“Essentially,” Ratchet huffed.

“Maybe he’s feeling abandoned?” Ratchet turned a tired gaze her way. She squirmed under it. “I don’t know. Really, if I could tell you something that would make all of this infinitely better, I would.”

For a moment, all Ratchet did was continue to stare. “You got everything I ever wanted.”

“Anxiety and PTSD?” she joked back, but the medic didn’t lower the intensity of his gaze.

“A child,” he muttered. “That’s just how life with Jack was. You never got what you wanted with him, at least not how you imagined it. Sometimes he’d disappoint you. More often than not, though, he made life worth living.” Ratchet’s eyes slipped towards the cemetery, where Hot Rod and the blue mech were still huddled over Wheeljack’s plaque.

“You’re a good creator,” the medic said, sounding almost breathless. “Don’t put this war between you and your family. It isn't worth it.”

Mel was three when she finally worked up the resolve to talk with Jazz.

“Not resigning,” Jazz clarified, holding up a tablet with his own copy of her notice. “I still get you, just not in the field.”

“Basically. I’d be happy doing the same type of work you had me do when I was pregnant.”

“I can live with that,” Jazz sang as he tossed his tablet atop a stack of them. With how cluttered the desk was, Navi was honestly surprised nothing fell off it. “You’re not carrying again, right? I mean, it’s great if you are—”

“No,” she rushed out. “No, not for another year or so. Even then, Monica may want a turn.”

“Good, good. Planning is good.” Jazz leaned back in his desk chair, his hands cupping the back of his head. “Use protection and all. I don’t have the resources to have more of my team on leave.”

“It doesn’t work—nevermind.” She was about ask if Jazz needed her to train a replacement for her when the mech’s words sunk in. “Who else is on leave?”

Jazz just grinned viciously, a snicker bubbling out of him.

“I thought you were joking about the whole ‘give Mel a friend’ thing.” Navi gestured at her friend as though he was the young and foolish parent. “You got pregnant already?”

“Nah, not me.” Jazz nearly burst out laughing. “Prowl. Completely be accident, mind you.”

“You can’t make a baby by accident.”

“You can if you both thought your contraceptives were in date.” The light behind his visor dimmed as he closed his eyes. “Check the dates, kid. If it’s expired, it ain’t going to work. Also,” he added sitting up to lean closer to her, “think it goes without saying, but this isn't exactly public knowledge.”

“Oh really?” she sang, leaning closer as well. “You mean you don’t want everyone to know you knocked up the Second in Command after, what, only four weeks your time of him being here?”

“I’ll have you know we had the terrible sense to spark the first few cycles he was here, thank you.” Jazz giggled for a moment before sobering up. “Seriously, though, I don’t think Rachet’s in a good place right now. We’re waiting to see how it all goes before getting him involved.”

Navi nodded despite her better judgement. Not having a doctor immediately involved sounded terribly stressful to her, but maybe this type of thing was less dangerous for Cybertronians. “Alright, so immediately after getting here puts you at two and a half years already. How long is it supposed to take?”

Jazz’s face fell. “Thirteen of our months.”

“Long time,” she teased. Then the mental math kicked in. “Each of your months is, like, eight years for me.”

“A hundred and five human years to go,” Jazz droned. “I really was joking before, Navi. You don’t know how much I wish your kids and mine could grow together.”

“I always knew you’d outlive me.”

“Primus willing I do, I mean it. It’s hard enough seeing Melody get so big so fast—” Words seemed to catch in his throat, reducing him to just a shake of his head.

“I know the feeling.” She put on a smile because it was all she could. In times like these when she needed to wipe away the fog of anxiety, she turned to Monica. “I’d say we should start living every single moment grateful for the time we have, but I already do.”

Chapter Text

It was hard imagining life without Farah now that she was a part of him. Muzhir would wake with her in his arms and wonder to himself what he did to deserve such favor from Allah. For she really was divine. A magnetic force of nature and spirit not even the ‘Bots could rival.

Bringing her into his life was a no-brainer. He’d be stupid, according to Navi, to let such a woman go. Of course, he wholeheartedly agreed. And if the matter involved only her, he would have proposed a long time ago.

Naila was barely three when Muzhir met her. With their dad decidedly out of the picture, she didn’t seem to have a problem letting him into her little world. The smile she wore when he finally did ask to marry her mother—Allah, it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. She beamed at him as she flung herself in his arms. At five years old, she’d grown so much. Yet, her weight fell into his hold with familiar ease.

Saleem didn’t hate him. The boy just seemed worried. He was seven when Muzhir met him and old enough to remember how much his father hurt his mother. Of course, the fear was valid. Here was this random man with a mystery line of work trying to woo a woman who’d been taken advantage of in the past. Muzhir didn’t blame the kid for avoiding him.

That was why he introduced Farah and the kids to the ‘Bots so early on. Saleem needed transparency, Naila would enjoy Mel’s company, and Farah could be assured this relationship really was serious.

“Scenarios,” he offered to the gang. “Keep in mind the kids are three and eight. What do you think I should expect?”

JB signed something crude. Navi did a poor job stifling her laughter. “He’s not wrong.”

Muzhir decided to ignore them and instead turn to the two members of their group who might actually be honest with him. “Sky, Tegan, what’s your two cents?”

The shuttle glanced at the conference room door to check for the twentieth time it was closed before speaking. “I, uh, I’m not certain the little beings won’t be petrified by the sight of me. Let alone the others.”

“How much do they know?” Tegan asked, leaning closer to Muzhir and furrowing their brow.

“Next to nothing. I work in the military with something highly classified.”

Navi hummed thoughtfully. “Prepping them would help.”

“Oh, no, that’d be a security risk.” Tegan shook their head like Red Alert. “How about you bring them to us, first, then ease them towards the rec room?”

“Ah, sure, that may do fine,” Skyfire interjected before he seemed to realize something. “‘Us’ not including me, like?”

“Well…” Tegan motioned up and down the shuttle’s massive form. “The kids won’t be as scared by anyone else after they’ve seen you.”

When Skyfire’s wings drooped despite his eager nodding, JB gave the mech a polite grin. “I don’t think you’re scary, big guy. Your husband’s voice, however, that keeps me up at night.”

Conversation derailed, Muzhir was left with Tegan’s decent advice. A plan was formed, making a day out of his partner’s family visiting the base for the first time. Head to the gang, first, then introduce them to Jazz (for poor Skyfire’s sake), then perhaps have them meet Prowl or Optimus (whichever was available), then if all went well, an afternoon watching Paw Patrol in the rec room with whoever else stopped by.

Muzhir said a few extra prayers on the drive to Farah’s apartment. A few more got him through the drive to the base. Naila’s sing-along to Moana certainly helped distract him. As did the comforting hand Farah laid on his thigh.

He clutched her hand as he led them through the base to the gang’s conference room. Saleem’s suspicious glares his way were ignored for the sake of his own sanity.

Human-to-human introductions went perfectly. That was hardly his concern, though. Muzhir held his breath when Jazz finally joined them. Now, this moment was defining. If Farah or the kids couldn’t handle the ‘Bots…he didn't know what he’d do.

Jazz didn’t get a chance to even greet them before Saleem was jumping up in excitement. “You know the aliens?!”

Tegan sputtered something unintelligible while Muzhir just stared down at the boy. “The…the aliens?”

Saleem nodded, smiling far brighter than Muzhir had ever witnessed. “The robots from the Cyber planet! Are you friends with them?”

His eyes slid between Jazz (shook frozen a few robo-paces away) and Farah (trapped in rapture staring at the mech) before ultimately focusing on the kids. Naila didn’t blink twice. Saleem was practically vibrating in excitement.

So, he answered honestly. “I’m friends with a lot of them, yes. We all work together. This is Jazz. He’s one of the leaders of the, uh, the aliens.”

The boy looked up at Jazz in utter wonder. “You know Mr. Muzhir?”

Whatever Jazz said to him, Muzhir didn’t hear any of it. His mind was too busy reeling.

Not a single thought was collected until long after he drove them home that night. Back at the base, in the dead of night, Tegan jumped him.

“I thought we agreed no prepping?” they rushed out in a panic. “I know you’re serious with Farah, but what if they declined to come? We wouldn’t have a signed NDA, would we? We can’t have civilians wandering around with unknown knowledge of the Autobot operation here. Now, what exactly did you tell them?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged, at a complete loss. “I swear, I’m as confused as you.”

Tegan looked away in thought. “Did Farah say anything?”

“Only that she was just as curious. She thinks he might have conflated a show he was watching with reality.”

The explanation hardly satisfied Tegan. Which was why Muzhir arrived at Farah’s with a notepad full of questions the next day.

Once again, Muzhir wondered why he bothered preparing for anything. Saleem gave him everything he needed to know with a simple, “They look like the aliens on YouTube,” and a readily handed over iPad.

“There’s a YouTube channel,” Muzhir started as he and Tegan sat down in his office to pour over the oddity. “These two Cybertronians filmed themselves getting into hijinks and playing video games, and someone else—human, I believe—has been posting highlights on YouTube.” He slid his tablet across the desk for Tegan to see. “That’s how Saleem and Naila knew about Cybertronians.”

Tegan scrolled through the YouTube channel for a long moment, their face scrunching up in confusion. “Why are the comments on the videos turned off?”

“It’s on YouTube Kids.”

“How could anything any bot does be safe for kids?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt it’s any worse than watching a surgery on an Elsa doll, and that’s on there.” Muzhir shoved a hand in his hair. “We’ve been struggling to monitor what the kids see, but it just autoplays the most bizarre stuff. One moment they’re watching Bluey clips. The next, mind melting nonsense.”

Tegan signed a curse as they sat back to watch one of the videos. “These aren’t two of ours,” they mumbled, sitting back up to share the view of the screen.

“They aren’t Blaster’s minions?”

“No, look.” Tegan paused the video of two small bots playing a seemingly chaotic game of Among Us to point at the red visors covering their eyes. “They’re ‘Cons.”

There was more than just the YouTube channel. Rumble and Frenzy had built a small empire on Twitch, which was where the human was siphoning the highlights from. They didn’t just play games or prank other Decepticons. They hosted Q&As, they held conversations with colleagues, they even filmed Megatron without the warlord’s knowledge.

Muzhir and Tegan canceled their plans. Nothing was more important at the moment than analyzing what in the world the little menaces had leaked to over three thousand people on Twitch and a colossal forty million on YouTube.

“At least we know they’re Soundwave’s cassettes,” Tegan offered as they got comfortable on the office couch with a tablet and two notebooks. “I doubt he’d let them spill anything too sensitive.”

“Unless he’s just as in the dark as us about all this.”

Tegan frowned at that. “The only person more notorious in the world of information security than Red is Soundwave.”

Regardless, an investigation was necessary. They hit play on the first archived Twitch stream.

It was oddly innocent. Neither cassette seemed to know what this world of human media entailed and were simply goofing off in front of a camera for all to see. They made faces, played around with filters on themselves and the other cassettes, and talked about nothing for over an hour.

The next several streams were much of the same until they figured out how to stream themselves playing games. Hints of old intel leaked through. Mentions of recent battles being the reason for their breaks. Complaints about training. Missing someone left on Cybertron. References to events and Autobots Muzhir and Tegan could name. But nothing of significance was ever said despite how much talking the two were capable of.

Another nonsense stream had Muzhir smiling despite himself. Rumble and Frenzy spent an hour trailing Soundwave, trying and failing to egg the larger mech into participating in their shenanigans. It was cute, the way the two didn’t notice Soundwave sneakily planting the paint bombs they’d given him throughout the base as they walked. They were far too distracted by the mech.

Muzhir couldn’t help seeing Mel or Naila in them. He couldn’t help hearing their sweet pleadings for their mothers in the whines and complaints Rumble and Frenzy dealt to Soundwave.

And perhaps the comparison was made in good taste. Eventually, after Soundwave set off the paint bombs and the pair finished celebrating the victory, Rumble and Frenzy spent thirty full minutes teaching Soundwave how to “be cool like the famous humans”. Dabbing, Fortnite dancing—they all paled in comparison to a simple peace sign.

From then on, anytime Soundwave noticed he was being filmed on stream, he whipped out peace signs, and the twins groan-laughed at him.

“You got to stop that, Boss!” Rumble insisted through a fit of giggles.

“Yeah,” Frenzy agreed, equally amused, “it’s too embarrassing!”

It didn’t seem to matter to Soundwave that he was in Megatron’s presence on what appeared to be the Command Deck of a warship. All acts of war were paused to give the camera two peace signs like he was a ‘70s punk rock hippy. Slowly, achingly so, Soundwave flattened his fists, straightened his stance, and dabbed without an ounce of irony.

“No!” the twins cried in unison. The camera view jostled as the pair ran away from the “horrid” sight. “This was a mistake!”

The other cassettes didn’t seem quite as dramatic. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw were another set of twins, two bird-like creatures who rarely left the other’s side. More often than not, they were the victims of lesser pranks rather than accomplices. Though, Laser didn’t say a word of protest during one stream in which he perched on Frenzy’s shoulder while the menaces trashed Megatron’s throne room. Rumble mentioned in another stream, when the pair set about painting the Nemesis a slightly different shade of purple, that Buzz helped make the paint guns they used.

Then there were Ravage and Ratbat, the panther and the bat. Neither interacted on streams as often as the birds or Soundwave. Muzhir could see why, though, as the two calm beings quietly took in the chaos around them. For every instance of Soundwave peace-signing the camera, Ravage was lurking somewhere nearby to keep a silent watch over their group. For every stream Laser sat in on, Ratbat was idly working on a datapad in the same room.

The first Q&A stream cleared several things up.

“Ratty’s a neutral,” Frenzy explained, motioning to the winged creature in his lap. “Want to tell the nice humans why?”

Ratbat frowned, and Muzhir couldn’t help but see Saleem in those hesitant eyes. All youth and caution. “I don’t want to be a part of this war.”

“See?” Rumble interjected. “No one—not even Soundwave—can force us to fight. We choose to.”

Later, someone inevitably asked about the nature of the group. “Family,” Frenzy answered simply. “We’re all siblings,” Rumble further explained. “Soundwave is our…parent, I guess. We have a different word for it in our language.”

Muzhir spent the rest of the stream mulling over that answer. Not over the notion of Cybertronians creating families, nor over the idea of this group being one. No, what stunned him most was the ease of it all. The biggest threats to Earth included these glorified children and their cringy dad. And not a bit of it seemed odd to Rumble or Frenzy.

Thoughts of the war plagued the following streams. In particular, the one in which the twins wandered the base out of pure boredom. Soundwave caught the pair in the halls and proceeded to chase them, giggling right along with the twins as he demanded cuddles.

It was the same voice Muzhir had heard on the battlefield giving out orders to kill. And here it was, the deep, blunt tone calling out for something so innocent.

The reminder of just who this mech was made watching Soundwave smother the twins in nuzzles that much harder. Those hands had ripped Autobots apart. They also lovingly rubbed at Rumble’s jaw and squished Frenzy’s face.

“Offer,” Soundwave posed, crouching on his heels. “Rumble; Frenzy: assist in cassette acquisition.”

“What? So you can trap the others in sinister snuggles, too?” Rumble got directly in Soundwave’s face, seemingly squaring off against the larger mech. The stance only lasted a short beat. Both’s shoulders began to quake in identical fits of laughter.

Muzhir watched on with a conflicted frown as the twins helped Soundwave find and catch the birds. Then they all stalked Ravage on her patrol route, running into and ignoring any ‘Cons they met along the way. The dark panther played coy for all of two seconds. She seemed to know better than to give chase. Ratbat they found in their room working away at a datapad. Much to the small creature’s vocal annoyance, the entire family pounced on top of him.  

Stream after stream of innocent nothings took an abrupt turn on the next Q&A.

“We have two parents, yeah,” Frenzy answered, looking down at a puzzle toy in his hands. “We got Soundwave and one of the mechs left on Cybertron.”

After a moment of reading the chat, Rumble elaborated. “If we could get back to Cybertron, don’t you think we’d be there already? It’d take ages to get back there without the bridge. We just have to wait.”

“Yeah, sucks.” Frenzy flipped the toy around, sliding a piece in place. “Least we’ve gotten to spend time with him before all this scrap. Ratbat’s only met him over video calls.”

“Chat wants to know what bridging is,” Rumble muttered, looking over at his twin. “You want to explain it?”

Frenzy just shrugged.

“Fine. It’s basically a way of getting from one place to another like that,” Rumble explained with a clap of his hands for emphasis. “I don’t know how it all works. Buzz knows more than us since he worked with Flip on it.” He paused to read the chat. “Flip Sides is another brother. No, he’s not here with us anymore. Our other brother, Beastbox, designed the whole bridging stuff and died before he could build it. Flip finished his work before he also died.”

Frenzy looked up at that, first to his twin then to the text scrolling on their screen view. “We had a lot more brothers and another sister. They’re gone, now.”

Muzhir could not help it. His heart broke a little as the twins got up to show the stream pictures of the family they’d lost. Not direct pictures. Copies of drawings, they explained.

“Our other parent draws us all.” Rumble set the camera on his shoulder so he could lift the datapad with both hands. The screen lit up and unlocked with his writs port’s access code, revealing the first of a long series of drawings.

“He’s weird like that,” Frenzy muttered in what might have been intended as a snide remark. The cadence was too distance to be anything but reminiscent.

Drawings of Soundwave graced the screen. Hyperdetailed and strangely intimate with arrows and lines drawn between Soundwave’s form and descriptions of the expressions. Next were several of Ravage. These, too, were analytical with the way the lines captured her details and eerie calm. Laserbeak’s included several depictions of him recharging. A few of Buzzsaw’s seemed to take place in a laboratory setting. Both Rumble and Frenzy had their own respective pages, but they paused on one dedicated to pointing out differences between the two.

“We’ve swapped paint jobs a few times,” Rumble laughed. “The Boss and Shocks were the only ones who could tell.”

Beastbox looked like an ape with his big arms and stubby back legs. On the top left of his screen was a drawing in a different style. The lines were minimal, the details reduced to core identifiers, and the cassette’s sleeping form was surrounded by runes.

“This is the carving Shocks did for his grave.” Frenzy waited a moment, seemingly to read the chat. “He was six when he died. A couple of Autobots murdered him.”

“Ya Allah,” Muzhir swore. He had to pause the video to run a hand through his hair. Beside him, Tegan gently coaxed him into continuing to watch.

Enemy looked more like Rumble and Frenzy. “He was a brat,” the twins claimed in that fond way only older brothers could speak. This one, too, had a minimalized drawing of a sleeping Enemy surrounded by runes in the top left corner of the page.

There was a page with just a drawing of a mountainside where a plague was set in the ground bearing the name Quintus.

Flip Sides’s page included an in-depth sketch of the cassette’s internals. He looked like Enemy, Rumble, and Frenzy, but his systems appeared to have fused regions that mangled parts of his lines. Another etching in the top left.

Squawktalk—a name both twins laughed over sadly—had an extra page dedicated to a map of a fantasy world he’d written about. As well as a grave. His twin, Garboil, had an extra page, as well, detailing all the scars war left on his poor frame alongside. A whole separate datatpad containing his artwork was stored on Cybertron, the twins added. Like his brother, there was a grave in the top left. The two were meant to be set side-by-side, Frenzy explained, so that the two birds were laying with each other.

The drawings seemed never ending. Howlback looked so much like Ravage. Overkill was rather adorable looking with his rhino-esc frame. Slugfest smiled brightly in his drawings, his stegosaurus-looking tail swishing behind him. Wingthing was young, with wide eyes and lax features giving him a completely different vibe than his similarly shaped brother, Ratbat. Each had an etching in the top left corner.

And poor Rabat didn’t even have a page. Any drawings done of him were with this “Shocks” on Cybertron.

“Soundwave said we could show these to you if and only if we reminded you why they are gone.” Frenzy pushed Rumble’s hands down, signaling for the camera to face him instead. Only once he was in the center of the frame did he continue. “The Autobots are merciless killers. We don’t care that we’re at war and that death is meant to happen on the battlefield. Those monsters have taken our little brothers and sister from us. I will die hating them for it.”

Muzhir didn’t listen to whatever else happened on that stream. All he could picture was a mass grave filled with Melody and Saleem and Naila. Just the thought made him want to throw up.

He let Tegan speed through the last few streams alone. There wasn’t much to them, though. Rumble and Frenzy went back to terrorizing NPCs and various Decepticons as if they hadn’t just destroyed their viewers’ psyche with those damned drawings of the dead.

Then the streams stopped.

“There wasn’t a warning or anything.” Tegan set the tablet down beside them, looking every bit as conflicted as Muzhir felt. “They quit streaming about two years ago.”

Cross-checking the date of the last stream with their records proved what they already suspected. Rumble and Frenzy were two parts deep into a Stardew Valley challenge a week before the attack in New Mexico. They were spotted entering the outpost, the same one Wheeljack exploded. No one saw the two leave. No streams were posted since.

Neither of them voiced the obvious. It was easier to discuss the matter of intel. Or rather, the lack thereof.

They waited until the next day to even consider how to approach the ‘Bots about this. No new information was gleamed, but this technically violated the “robots in disguise” agreement the Autobots had with the military. For the sake of that technicality, they broached the subject with Jazz and Blaster.

“Well frag,” Jazz huffed. “How you two come across them?”

“Saleem found their gaming stuff on YouTube. It’s run by a fan.” Muzhir leaned his weight against the guardrails to leer over the mech as best he could. “You knew about the streams.”

Jazz gave them a cocky smirk. “Man, it is my job to know everything. Just don’t let Red get too up on me for taking over security of Soundwave’s vermin. Kept a program running to search out key words in their livestreams while they were around. This YouTube thing, though, is a problem.” He turned towards Blaster, shoving his hands on his hips. “Think you can take it down?”

“Course I can,” Blaster cheered. “All I got to do is copyright strike the perp till their channel is taken offline. Not hard with the right sway.”

Jazz turned back to the two of them with a flashy grin. “Tada! Problem solved!”

Tegan may have blown out a sign of relief, but a nagging thought still tugged on Muzhir’s mind. Unsure how exactly to voice it, he started by building a bridge. “Blaster, why don’t we see your cassettes around the base as often?” When Blaster made a noise of confusion, he clarified. “Half the streams were just Rumble and Frenzy running around. Sometimes their brothers or Ravage would join them.”

Blaster fell into an uncomfortable frown. “Soundwave’s always been a bit delusional. He treats his symbiotes like they’re actual creations when, in actuality, they’re something adjacent.” He tapped his flat chest, where the cassettes stayed docked within him. “Creations are meant to grow out of being dependent, you know? Symbiotes never will.”

The tugging remained, but Muzhir left it be. He nodded in thanks to the explanation before taking his leave.

Sleeping didn’t make the thought go away. It stayed with him as some abstract idea of what was right and moral. Praying didn’t bring him solace. If anything, doing so enhanced that need to act on his instinct.

‘Cons didn’t go back for their dead. Supposedly. If that were true, and if Soundwave for whatever reason didn’t fight that norm in this case, then there were two bodies in that outpost lying outside proper graves. They deserved rest, yes. More importantly, they deserved to rest beneath their own etched gravestones. Muzhir couldn’t aid in the latter, that was Shocks’s job it seemed. He could, however, ensure the former.

He decided not to waste time on Jazz and Blaster. He sought out Optimus.

“The New Mexico Outpost,” he started, catching the Prime’s attention. “Did we recover two symbiote bodies from the wreckage?”

“Not to my recollection. If you are referring to Soundwave’s cassettes, we did receive visual confirmation of their demise.”

“Their frames were intact?”

Optimus gave him a strange look. His subtle features narrowed his eyes just enough to bury their gaze in Muzhir’s soul.

He wanted nothing more than to squirm away, but this was a higher matter than war or factions or his own insecurities. So, he squared his shoulders instead. “The ‘Cons may not recover their dead, but Soundwave does. If Rumble and Frenzy are still there, then Soundwave may not be able to reach them, or maybe he believes the explosion obliterated their remains. Whatever the case, we need to bury them. Set aside the insignia they bore.” A deep breath in kept anxious thoughts of Farah at bay. “Someone’s children are dead.”

There was a moment, however brief, in which Optimus just stared down at him. Then his mouth gradually curved.

They drove to New Mexico together in comfortable silence.

The outpost was more dilapidated than Muzhir remembered. With Optimus’s strength aiding them, they managed to move the massive pieces of roofing crushing two small bodies. Two years of neglect had dried and grey their frames, and parts of their chassis and limbs were mangled or melted away. They were still recognizable.

Muzhir tried to think back to that page of drawings detailing all the little ways the twins differed. Someone’s arm was a little longer, their heads were slightly different shapes. He couldn’t quite remember. Part of him wished he did, especially when they returned to base. On the outskirts of the graveyard, he and Optimus dug one large hole rather than two. Because they couldn’t tell who was who. And so, the grave was marked with a single plaque.

“Wait,” Muzhir called out as he fumbled for his phone. “Soundwave needs to know where they are.”

The video he shot was short. He showed the camera where the grave resided beside the Autobot graveyard, described how the twins were laid to rest, and lingered on the plaque bearing two names.

“I watched their livestreams,” he found himself saying. “I can’t know what they were to you, but I can imagine. I just…I didn’t want you to feel as though they were forgotten. They’re safe. When all this ends, they’re here waiting for you. May your god offer you peace as you mourn another loss.”

Optimus didn’t question his simple request. The video was sent over a private channel, directly to Soundwave.

A weight fled his body as they walked away. For the first night since he and Tegan watched those streams, Muzhir managed to sleep.

The next day, Optimus approached him with a reply from Soundwave. In English.

::Thank you. May your god bless you, as well.::

And there went the rest of the weight.

Chapter Text

Navi finished pushing her hair back before walking over to the screen built into Jazz’s desk. “The implantation appointment is on Thursday, so I’ll just take off then and Friday.”

“Cool, cool,” he muttered as he tapped away at the screen. It took him a moment to navigate between the human and Cybertronian calendars, but eventually he hit the final button with a flourish. “Honestly, Navi, this is downright weird.”

“Implanting embryos?” she laughed. “Do you guys not have something similar?”

“Not in the slightest. Least not to my knowledge.” Jazz shrugged and tapped at his chest. “We start off as itty-bitty sparks that got to travel down to, uh…” His visor dimmed in thought. “I don’t know what to call it. Let’s go with ‘tank’,” he decided with a pat to his abdomen. “It goes down there, and eventually a sparkling comes out.”

Navi pushed her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing too hard. A snort still escaped her. “What a description.”

He shook his head fondly as he added, “Point being, I don’t see a way to freeze any part of it. So yeah, you’re weird.”

“You’re weird.” The smirk he wore was a familiar one filled with mirth and mischief. Navi waved their bickering away, knowing full and well that they could go back and forth like toddlers for hours. “I’m taking off Thursday and Friday. Next is the light duty schedule and my maternity leave.”

“Fine,” he sang, leaning forward to work at the screen again. “How long’s this taking?”

“About forty weeks give or take. Then at least three months recovery.”

Jazz glanced at the human calendar then made a thoughtful noise. “Muzhir’s getting hitched in three months. Damn, almost forgot how soon that is. I need to update my holo.”

“We’ll help you find a decent tux to model after. Just pray for me that I don’t have to buy another dress for it.” When Jazz gave her a confused frown, she motioned at her stomach. “They say you show more sooner in your second pregnancy. I’d rather not have to buy a nicer maternity dress.”

“Oh, I completely forgot about that part of it,” Jazz said in a near whisper, as if he was afraid of the mere concept. “Yeah, no, I’m jotting you down for a year of recovery.”

“I’m not about to argue that.”

“No you are not.” Jazz grinned once he finished updating the calendars and leaned back in his chair to grab a datapad from the pile on the edge of his desk. “I’ll get this to Prowl, and he’ll input your changes to the roster and all. Takes a day or so to process since this ain’t high priority.”

“Efficient guy,” Navi swore and turned a bit to start walking away. “Is he coming to the wedding? ‘Cause if he is, then we need to get him a holo, too.”

“He might, yeah, just depends how he’s feeling.” The datapad in his hand was tapped against the desk thoughtfully. “It’d be kinda hard to explain why we’re coming in two cars. Or why the cop mobile keeps driving off to puke in the woods.”

“Ah,” Navi sang. “Don’t make him feel like he has to come. Muzhir and Farah understand.”

Jazz grinned something manic. “He would sooner crawl to make it on time—which means getting there thrity minutes ahead—than stay in sick. Primus Himself would have to come up and shove him in bed to make him even consider taking it easy.” His head lulled back as he cackled. “He’s too thickheaded! I love it!”

True to Jazz’s prediction, not wind nor rain nor morning sickness kept Prowl from attending the wedding of two humans he barely knew. Navi had to admire him. Mostly because she couldn’t say a word otherwise. She, too, barreled through five-year-old tantrums and nausea spells to get to the ceremony on time.

“Early,” Jazz corrected. “We all got here three hours early.”

“Which is the appropriate to arrive at a social event of this caliber.”

“Not saying it ain’t appropriate, just calling it what it is. Early.”

Monica may have laughed at the pair, but all Navi could do was stare at Prowl’s holoform. She’d seen it before now, of course. Pale, no taller than her, dark haired, almond-eyed, and dressed in the pantsuit Tegan helped him find. But not as a woman. Most certainly not a near identical replica of Monica. “Prowl…I said you could use my wife as an example not a template.”

Jazz shifted his hold on Melody so he could lean towards Prowl. “I told you it was too close to Monica!”

Monica, for her part, couldn’t even speak through her hysterical laughter. “I—” she tried before dapping at her eyes to keep her tears from ruining her mascara. “God, I look good in blue.”

“There are incredible consistencies between non-related humans,” Prowl insisted.

Navi wasn’t sure she had the energy to tackle that, so instead, she asked, “What happened to the holo you had before?”

Prowl signed, motioning uselessly at his holoform. “My thought was if you were similarly indisposed, then it would be easier to explain my need to disable my holoform if we simply shared conditions.”

“And you and Jazz can share a wife,” Monica added. Unhelpfully. With a cute grin thrown Navi’s way.

Jazz made to speak, but Mel grabbing at his holo’s face forced him to pause. “I know it don’t hurt me, baby girl, but you still can’t yank on me.” She whimpered under his scolding, which Jazz swiftly remedied by bouncing her on his hip. “But it’s cool, isn't it? Yeah, I can hold you now!” He freed a hand to cup her little cheek, prompting a giggling fit. “I can squeeze you and tickle you and—”

“That’s great.” Prowl’s holo flickered like something from a Star Wars movie. “Hold on,” he mumbled, then completely vanished. Within the second, they could hear a car peeling out of the nearby parking lot.

“Welp!” Jazz announced and looked around at the few people milling about then back at their early group. “Good thing the ceremony’s out here and not in a city or something.”

There was some validity to that. Pennsylvania hills rolled under clear blue skies. Where the pergola and chairs were situated was an overlook to a gorgeous, forested horizon. The Blue Ridge Resort sat on the hill behind them and the parking lot beyond the mountain lodge. An elegant venue for an equally elegant couple. That the robot attendees had plenty of surrounding forest to hide in was an added bonus.

And, truthfully, Prowl had a decent point. His holo seemed altered purely for the sake of making him look feminine and just as pregnant as her. It was easier to explain why he had to excuse himself every hour or so when Navi, too, frequently needed to find the nearest place to vomit. The designated “baby mamas” of their group, according to Jazz and Monica.

It also helped that Farah and Muzhir were just as humored by the situation.

“I think you look great…” Muzhir started, motioning at Prowl in search of a name he didn’t have. “…not Peter.”

Monica hummed to secure her place in the conversation so she could finish her sip of wine. “We’re calling her Phebe.”

 “We’re collecting the cast of Friends!” Farah rolled with laughter. “I love it!”

Navi chuckled along with her, though her focus was drawn to the beaded designs on Farah’s wedding dress. It had shimmered in the setting sunlight during the ceremony. Now, under the lamps and Edison bulbs on the reception hall terrace, her new friend’s form shimmered. “You look beautiful, by the way, Farah.”

The newlywed smiled shyly, pushing back the train on her headdress to reveal more of the shoulders and sleeves of the gown. “Thank you! You look lovely, as well.”

“No half-truths necessary. I look as great as I feel.” Regardless, Navi straightened confidently in her seat to look past Farah. “Mel and Naila still playing?”

“Saleem’s watching them,” Farah nodded and stepped back so Navi could see their kids more clearly.

She had to laugh at her friend’s phrasing. The ten-year-old boy was keeping a close eye on his little sister and Mel while, right beside them, JB and Tegan were dancing along to the music blaring from inside the reception hall. Not one of them were on beat.

Well, that just wouldn’t do. In spite of how nauseous she felt, Navi managed to pull herself and Monica over to the dance crew. Inevitably, the newlyweds and Autobots followed.

Not to be left out of a good party, the rest of the Autobots had been rather insistent a second reception needed to be held on base. Jazz, naturally, was more than willing to arrange it all. Thus, the entire week after Farah and the kids moved into the compound was one massive party. Technically in honor of the married couple. Realistically for the sole purpose of getting wasted.

“Not completely,” Bluestreak said with a hint of a wave in his voice. “I’m not that wasted, for instance. Just a little buzzed.” He swayed to the side. Poor thing might have fallen over had Sunstreaker not caught him.

As Blue faded into an endless ramble, Navi tuned him out. From her seat on the robo-coffee table, she could see the clusters of dancing mechs floundering about in the rec room. Most of them she knew by name with the exception of a few of the newer ‘Bots and the usual recluses. Aside from the designated sobriety units, Skyfire, Red, and Inferno, the whole crew was crowding the rec room and immediate hallways.

Navi tuned back in to the ‘Bots gathered near her when Blue fell onto the couch with a loud thud.

“I’m not overcharged!”

“Baby Blue, I beg to differ,” Jazz chuckled, slipping passed Sunstreaker to sit on the couch, as well, with Prowl following close behind.

JB and Tegan vaulted up to the table in quick succession and ran over to Navi with flushed cheeks and beads of sweat on their foreheads. “Having fun?” Navi asked, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

“A lot,” JB signed then collapsed beside her. Out loud, he breathed, “Where’s Monica and Mel?”

“Headed to bed.”

“Oh, why so early?”

“JB, it’s one in the morning,” Navi explained patiently. “Muzhir and Farah took their kids and left with them. They all told you goodnight a couple hours ago.”

Tegan snorted as they, too, flung themselves down beside Navi. “Ignore him. He’s a light weight.”

Sunstreaker grunted at that. “He can join the club,” he muttered, pointing a thumb at Blue. Who was now laying on his side with his head in Jazz’s lap and babbling about something in Standard.

“Are you better at it?” JB teased the huge mech with a slur to his words. Sunstreaker just stared at him. “Well, I bet you can’t out drink Navi!”

“A lot of people can out drink me. It’s just you who can’t,” she interjected and gave her friend a pat on his back. Which was a terrible mistake. His whole shirt was drenched in sweat.

“Give her a few months,” JB continued completely unbothered by the correction. “She’ll show you!”

“A few months?”

Navi was prepared to explain for the hundredth time how human reproduction worked until she realized it wasn’t Sunstreaker who’d asked. Nor was it Blue, who was still rambling away in Cybertronian clicks. No, Prowl was the one looking at her with a keen eye scrutinizing her form.

Of course, she looked down. The tee-shirt she’d thrown on wasn’t exactly loose, especially with how big her stomach had gotten just in the last month. Surely, though, Prowl was not insinuating—

“I thought your carriage was almost over.”

Oh, no. He was. “Excuse me?”

Prowl’s resting bitch face didn’t falter for a moment. “I was under the impression—”

“You think I look that fat already?” What did it matter that she was exhausted? Navi stomped to her feet anyway to properly glare at Prowl. “I’m only four months!”

It was at that moment she began swearing. Curse after creative curse flooded out of her, the full force of her ire trained solely on Prowl. Until eventually she noticed even Sunstreaker’s cheeks were flushed blue.

With a deep breath to collect herself, she ended the tirade with a huffed, “Bitch,” and let her hands run down her front.

A beat of silence blared louder than the music from the rec room’s speakers. Then Jazz had the audacity to snicker.

And it was at that moment that every little irk Prowl had built up over the last few years exploded on Navi. “It was a harmless remark!”

“Harmless?” she bit back.

He rose to his feet to leer over her, his back panels flared out and eyes blown wide. “It’s bad enough you only have to endure 12 cycles of this, but must you be so fragging stupid to think I’d insult you?”

“Stupid?”

“Yes, incredibly stupid! You scrapheaded flesh bag—”

“Okay,” Jazz sang, rising slowly out from under Blue’s head. “Prowler, babe—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Prowl straightened and nearly smacked Jazz with one of his back panels in the process.

“No, no, babe, you two are just confused.”

Navi barely heard Tegan and JB oooing at them above the sound of her own chest heaving. Before she could get a word out, though, Jazz was trying to wave away both her and Prowl’s fury.

“I mean, like—well, for one, Prowl, it’s only been like five cycles. Two, Navi, we don’t do it like you do,” Jazz explained, motioning at his core. “Prowl’s not going to show it like that.”

Oh. Navi looked down at her front again with this now in mind. She could see where, if Prowl had no concept of a person swelling out like this, he would confuse her bump as being full term. A simple miscommunication between species with common and vastly different ways of accomplishing the same process.

She looked back up at Prowl in time to see a similar realization ease his features.

Naturally, that was when Bluestreak seemed to remember he could understand English. “How come you two didn’t know that already?”

“What?” Prowl asked with a cant of his head and back panels.

Poor Blue sloshed about as he motioned between Prowl and Navi. “Dad…Mom?…Prowl should know more about her thing than me. And even I knew humans were little oddies.” He gave Prowl a silly grin. “Have you ever watched Jane the Virgin? Hilarious! Such educational! Much dramatic! Better than Twilight! That was a confusing one.” His grin flipped upside down. “Vampires…not real. No glittery humies.” He about slipped off the couch in a sudden effort to turn to Sunstreaker. “Sunny! Do Edwad! The line, the line, please!”

Sunstreaker helped drag Blue to his feet. Navi wasn’t quite sure why since the moment he sneered and rasped, “It’s the skin of a killer, Bella,” Blue threw himself on the floor in a fit of drunken laughter.

Wherever their conversation could have gone, Navi conceded to never knowing. Prowl and Jazz became occupied trying and failing to convince their adult son to call it a night. There was nothing anyone could do to move Blue out of the rec room, especially once “Bohemian Rapsody” started playing.

“I’ll out-sing Queen!”  Blue insisted. And then he did. Try to. Truth be told, the kid had a phenomenal voice, smooth and ranged enough to rival Fredy Mercury. But he couldn’t keep from giggling and pointing at Prowl every time the word “mama” came up. His very dramatic concert quickly devolved into him sitting on his feet cry-laughing.

Perhaps by consequence, as the end of the song came around, so too did JB’s common sense. The three of them called it a night.

The rest of the base remained “indisposed” for the rest of the month.

“Honestly,” Farah breathed as she and Monica watched the kids run ahead of them into the rec room, “it’s incredible you were able to clean everything so quickly.”

Red Alert seemed to school her expression. “It wasn’t as difficult as you’d imagine. Besides,” she boasted, “I have a carefully crafted system when it comes to the aftermath of a Jazz party.”

Monica chuckled at that. “Are you volunteering to clean our kids’ rooms?”

“Ah, no. I have far more important things to do.”

A deep rumbled chuckle had Navi craning to look back and up at Inferno just in time to see his suggestive smirk. “Mind your mouth, big guy,” she chided.

“I didn’t say nothing.”

“Nothing at all,” Navi droned, though her mouth tugged up in a grin on its own accord. “We don’t need you or Red out of commission, either.”

“What? Why?” Red came to a halt to stare down at her with wide blue eyes. “Why would we be out of commission? What do you know? Is there a plot to deactivate me?”

Navi had every intention of calming Red down, but Tegan beat her to it. Where they came from, she had no idea. Her friend just appeared in the rec room doorway as if they’d been teleported there without warning.

“My Red Alert sense is tingling! What happened? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know!” Red cried. “Someone’s trying to kill me!”

“Red, love,” Inferno soothed. “Navi was just warning me not to knock you up.”

That should have resolved things. At least, it seemed to calm Tegan down. But Red’s panicked eyes just turned on Inferno. “You’re the assassin?”

Sneaking wasn’t exactly her strongest suit at the moment. Regardless, Navi did her best to slip under Red’s anxious watch to follow her wife into the other room. She gave Tegan an apologetic cringe, praying she looked as guilty as she felt, especially as Inferno’s voice was drowned out by Red’s frightened conspiracies.

“She’ll be fine,” Tegan muttered, giving Navi a pat on her shoulder. “I’m going to need a few hours to help ‘Ferno reorient her, though.”

“Take your time.”

The rec room was far less stress filled. From a glance in the hall, it had looked fairly cleaned up. Walking in now, though, was a testament to her spatial memory. She wasn’t looking where she was walking towards the couches and coffee table. No, her eyes were locked on the pristine orange walls and immaculate floor. All of which she could see because there wasn’t a speck of dust or Cybertronian in the way.

Aside from, of course, Jazz, his family, and the frontliner twins. Navi made her way over to them, noting the odd tension lingering between the two couches. While Jazz stood to pick her up and set her among the rest of the gang on the coffee table, she eyed the two frontliners sitting on her right.

Sunstreaker wasn’t that bad. He was quiet, loyal, and (most importantly) Bluestreak’s biggest supporter. His twin, however, was as cocky as he looked. Neither worked with her often over the years, and perhaps that was by design. Sideswipe was, according to Jazz, a danger to human safety.

Were her daughter not playing nearby or she not too pregnant to protect Mel and Monica, she might not have said a word. As it was, her voice came out thick with caution. “What are you two doing up this early?”

Sideswipe didn’t give her an answer. He lulled his head back, dragged himself to his peds, and mumbled an insult as he walked away. No one stopped him.

“Is he okay?” Muzhir asked, already walking towards the edge of the coffee table as if he could catch up to the Bot. When no one spoke up, he looked to Sunny. “Your brother is welcome to stay. He knows that, right?”

Sunstreaker just shrugged. Beside him, Blue shifted uncomfortably before answering for him. “He’ll be okay.”

The rec room was quiet for a beat, save the kids giggling to themselves. It was that lack of further rambling that had Navi glancing between the couches with concern. Neither Blue nor Sunny betrayed their thoughts, the two of them sitting still against each other. Prowl looked as tense as ever, perhaps a little more drained than usual. Jazz’s thinned mouth, however, was new. At least, outside of a warzone it was.

Muzhir must have noticed it, too, but swayed where he stood seeming hesitant to leave and reluctant to stay. His wife made up his mind for him with a soft push forward. “Remind me why I married you,” she ordered, motioning to the door Sideswipe fled through.

Jazz made to stand. “I’m sure the kid’s fine—”

But Muzhir was already sliding down the ladder and racing off after Sideswipe without a care for Jazz’s assurance. All Farah could do was smile as he disappeared into the hall.

If anyone could diffuse a situation, it was Muzhir. Navi let that fact sooth her focus back to her daughter and friends.

“Sunny and I are going to bond.”

Whatever she was supposed to feel, all that came out of her was a short, “Oh,” that was almost immediately drowned out by Prowl’s far sterner, “That has yet to be decided.”

Something in Blue’s eyes imploded, making him look for all the world like Jazz about to set a ‘Con on fire. “Sunny and I are going to bond.”

“The two of you were far too overcharged to make such a monumental decision.” Prowl adjusted his back panels to lean back on the couch.

Jazz shook his head with an air of helplessness. “Baby Blue—”

“I am an adult,” Blue interjected. “Treat me like one.”

“Bluestreak.” Jazz’s voice dipped low. So much so, even Mel and Naila paused to look up at him. “This ain’t an argument we need to have right now.”

“This shouldn’t even be an argument.”  

“You’re sure as hell making it into one.”

“Me?” Blue yelped and stood up to glare down at his parents. “Frag off. Both of you.”

Navi had to keep herself from making a sound. Prowl reacted enough as it was what with his abrupt rise to his feet and icy glare. A glare which, she noted, wasn’t directed at Blue. “I want the both of you separated for the foreseeable future. Not—” he raised his voice and a finger at Blue when the kid tried to interrupt “—because I am some cruel creator with ill notions of you. But because neither of you understand the weight of a bond and need to think for more than a moment about what merging your lives means.”

Bluestreak sneered, revealing the glint of metal teeth. Whatever he wanted to say was stopped by a hand wrapping around his arm.

“Yes, sir,” Sunstreaker muttered and stood with a polite dip of his head. “I’ll go be a whore someplace else until you decide I’m clean enough to be associated with you.” Whether in genuine love or out of spite, he pulled Blue in for a kiss on the cheek then made to leave the scene.

“Sunny, that’s not—” Jazz cut off his protest with a flippant wave of his arms as Sunstreaker disappeared in the hall. “Be mad at us all you want, Bluestreak. We’re not going to let you make a rash irreversible decision like that.”

 “‘Rash’.” Blue shook his head so hard his back panels swayed. “We’ve been planning out our lives for the past several centuries. Don’t think for a moment I don’t know anything. I sure as hell know more than either of you.”

“Watch it. Now.” Prowl motioned pointedly for Blue to sit back down. “This is a personal matter, and we will not be discussing it further in a public setting.”

But Blue just rolled his shoulders back, straightening defiantly. “Sunny and I are going to bond. Don’t come to the ceremony unless you plan to give me away with a smile. Otherwise, I don’t want you there.”

Navi could only stare as the younger Bot stormed off, presumably after Sunstreaker. What was she supposed to say, though? Close as she and Jazz were, she didn’t know much about the frontliner twins let alone just how involved Sunstreaker and Bluestreak were.

It was that very uncertainty that forced her questioning gaze Jazz’s way. “How long have they been together?”

Jazz didn’t look at her. While the rest of the gang began adding in their own wonderings and opinions on the matter, Navi stalked closer to her friend. She wasn’t especially intimidating. Certainly not as she was. But by God’s grace she was going to unnerve him into answering her.

Sure enough, he finally said in a tone just about a whisper, “Since they were around ten.” He frowned at her, adding, “Navi, it ain’t like we don’t like the twins. They’re fine. But you know better than he does what those kind of vows mean.”

“You’re right, I do. But you’re not really worried about him ‘settling’, are you?”

There it was. The guilt Jazz wore when caught in a lie he never really needed to tell. And there was Prowl, fully prepared to fight it. “Blue would not just be merging his and Sunstreaker’s lives,” Prowl explained plainly. “He would be tying our and Sunstreaker’s families together.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Monica asked, coming to stand by her side. “Do you hate Sideswipe so much you’d keep your son from marrying Sunny?”

“We have nothing against Sideswipe, regardless of his antics,” Prowl droned.

Jazz nodded. “Their parents are Decepticons. We don’t think Blue’s really thought that part out, yet.”

“Oh,” Navi breathed. She wished she could say that changed her mind. Truth be told, she was torn. Navigating complicated relationships with her children was a long way into the future for her. Still, imagining Mel fighting her for the chance to marry the son of an enemy was impossible if only because she could never see her daughter choosing someone of poor moral standings.

The thought lingered in her, turning her surprised expression to one of disappointment. “Blue can’t be trusted to have sound standards. That’s what you mean.”

“No, nothing to do with trust, we just don’t—”

“—Think he’s thought this through,” she finished for Jazz. “Sunstreaker is here, wearing the same Autobot insignia as you and me, Jazz. What does it matter where he and his brother come from?” She motioned for Monica’s two cents, receiving an encouraging nod from her wife to continue. “I, for one, don’t doubt for a moment that a child you two raised is skilled enough to know a good man from a bad one. And I most certainly trust that child has thought about everything at nauseum.”

If Jazz had more to say, he lost his chance to hesitation. His mouth worked around air as Red Alert, Inferno, and Tegan walked in entirely oblivious. This was indeed a private matter, not one Red ever needed to be involved in. So, he and Prowl sat back and insisted politely that the trio join them.

The conversation hadn’t ended, though. Not for Navi. As far as she was concerned, it had merely paused. Hence why she pointed directly at Jazz and whispered, “Talk to me later,” before dawning a cheerful façade.

“Later” turned out to be five months.

Monica was bouncing where she stood to calm the newborn strapped to her chest. Their son fussed a bit but leveled out under the influence of his mother’s soothing voice. Yes, the giant robot crouching in front of him was a strange sight to behold. But he was snuggled against Monica, and his toosh was being patted gently by Melody. All familiar comforts.

Navi gave the sweet baby a peck on his hairy little head. “Get used to him, Jackie Wilson. There’s more of them, and they’re just as much your family at this point.”

“Bet,” JB laughed, leaning over to sneak a peak of the baby’s scrunched up face. “You’re not too scared of big old Skyfire, are you?”

Said shuttle’s wings drooped impossibly lower. His hands lifted so carefully to sign, “I’m still very confused how this happened.” Poor guy pulled his face up into exaggerated confusion. “I was only in the lab for a few days!”

“I told you it would happen fast for you.” JB gave Skyfire’s hand a fond pat. “He’s been Earth-side for almost a month our time.”

Skyfire signed a creative swear. “He’s huge. Baby birds-me are so much smaller.”

Tegan snorted. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Compare. Smart ass.” Skyfire flicked the air in front of them. To Navi, he laughed. “Good thing you are not a bird-Star. He comes in three.”

“Dear God, no thank you.” Navi was just beginning to relax into their group’s usual banter when Jazz walked by. And gave her a familiar look.

Not a single member of their ever-expanding gang was happy to see her leave, least of all her. But it could not be helped. Whatever Jazz needed of her, she trusted it was time-sensitive.

Hence her confusion with him taking her outside away from the rest of the base instead of his office.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn't answer. Just sat down cross-legged and set her on his knee.

“Is this about Bluestreak?” she prompted, trying in vain to gauge his thoughts. “Jazz, if he went behind your back—”

“No, nothing like that,” he mumbled. “I just…I need a minute.”

Of course, she gave it to him. Three, in fact. They sat there, staring at nothing in particular, as Jazz’s thoughts collected. Eventually, he spoke. And it sounded more like a gasp. “I haven’t been a good anything lately. I’m sorry for that. It’s been hard for me to get that I can be attached to you like this.”

“Like what?” Navi set a comforting hand on the plating beneath her.

Jazz’s whole body heaved in tune with his vents. The strain in his voice twisted his features. “It’s hard for me to confide in people. Even harder to imagine being close to you because I know good and well you’re going to die long before I will.” He looked skyward, revealing a slight gap between his face and visor. “I don’t know how to be a good friend to you. I don’t know who else to go to about any of this. And me not doing none of that is making me a bad partner to Prowl and parent to Blue.”

All valid feelings to have. God knew her own prayers for peace of mind grew ever since Prowl arrived on Earth. There were vital moments in her friend’s life she was going to miss. That couldn’t be changed. “All the more reason to seize every second you have with me.”

Jazz laughed something hollow. “It’s hard. Damn hard. Especially lately with Blue fighting me on things.” He shook his head as if to reset. “I also didn’t want to put thoughts in your mind you didn’t deserve to suffer with.”

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Whatever you need me for, I’m here listening.”

He mumbled a few ‘I know’s before running his vents again. Finally, he looked down at her. “I lost a baby. Blue was, like, five at the time. I was caught up in a fight over some intel and got shot.” He took a few seconds to collect himself again. “I lost my son for the sake of intel some other mech leaked on a whim. That mech didn’t give a frag about it. He boasted to me how he was a better parent than me ‘cause he kept his boys alive and I didn’t.”

Jazz’s mouth straightened to a snarl, and he motioned at the base sitting behind them. “That mech was Sunstreaker’s parent. He slept around, had Sunny and Sides, and turned traitor when justice came for him. He ain’t just a ‘Con, Navi. I got a right to be…” He searched around for the right words, but they never came to him. “Right?”

It was a lot to take in, so Navi just breathed for a long moment. “Are you mad? Sad? Something in between?”

“I don’t know. It was bad enough memories were coming back to me now that Prowl’s carrying. This mess with Blue, though, has me shaken.”

That was a decent place to start. “Does Blue even know?”

“Kinda. He remembers losing a brother and some fights me and Prowl had with Sunny’s parents over them meeting up. When the mech left them, the twins came to stay with us for a time. They had…opinions on the matter. And I think Blue believes them more than us.”

“Maybe he’s moved on. Blue, I mean.” Navi rubbed at the metal under her hand. “Jazz, I’m going to ask you something you may not want to answer. Do you think you’d feel this way about them getting married if Prowl and I hadn’t both been pregnant when they told you?”

After a moment of thought, he shook his head. “What you mean?”

“I can imagine the kind of heartache you went through,” she prefaced, pushing her free hand over her heart. “I think I’d die if I lost Mel or Jackie. The life would just leave me. That’s valid. And I wish you’d told me sooner about your loss. I could have been more sensitive during my pregnancies had I known. But do you think with all those feelings built up by Prowl and me carrying that everything’s overflowing on Blue?”

“I’d like to think not.” Jazz leaned his head to the side as he mulled over his emotions. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t think these feelings stirred up from y’all being there or not would change the way I feel about merging that family with mine.”

“But you’re not,” Navi pointed out. “You think I get along with all of Monica’s family? Hell no! Some of them still think we’re roommates. Unless Blue’s planning on having Sunny’s family around—which I don’t even see how that’d be possible at the moment—the only additions to your family are Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Do you blame them for the actions of their parents?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, for starters, you need to make that way more clear to them.” Navi waved the core of their conversation to the side. “Sunstreaker made it seem like you and Prowl have a low opinion of him. The fact Muzhir never even told us about his conversation with Sides leads me to believe Sides is of the same mind.”

For a beat, Jazz just bobbed his head in understanding. “They still talk to their parents, though. Have since that mech left them behind.”

“And they’re still here,” Navi pointed out. “They have Autobot insignias painted on their chests and fight alongside all of you against the ‘Cons. Just because Monica and I still talk to her cousins doesn’t mean we agree with them.” She looked off in thought before giving her friend a serious look. “Do you think spending so much of your lives at war has warped the way you view people?”

“In terms of those I do or don’t disagree with?”

“Not just you, of course, but yeah.”

“Maybe.” He didn't look at her as he wondered aloud, “Things getting labeled as enemy or not-enemy. I…I had a family back before the war. Prowl did, too. I remember us visiting them once and having to watch what we said and did around some of them. Prowl and I had a lot of talks back then about how we were going to navigate all that if we ever bonded. But then the war hit, we lost just about everyone, got Blue, and just…stopped thinking like that.”

“Well, ‘cause why would you?”

“Right,” he droned, seeming lost in thought. “I don’t know. I mean, I definitely think my spark goes more off kelter the closer Prowl gets to the furthest I managed to carry. Adding in watching you and Mon building a life together on fastforward. I don’t know if all that is making me fearful of Blue bringing that mech into the mix.”

“Oh, if anyone knows something about fears—” Navi motioned to herself with as much flourish as she could muster. “I’ll give you the same advice Monica gives me when fears try to consume me. That’s the devil trying to keep you from living life as God intends it. The devil doesn’t want you to see your son happy or for you to enjoy the little bits of sunshine between warzones. He only wants you to focus on a bad moment of your life because it keeps you bogged down. Keeps you from feeling joyful. And God—at least my God—wants you to live joyfully.”

She let him absorb what she’d said for a moment, then patted his thigh again. “Jazz, I don’t think you’re a bad friend for being afraid. But I do want to encourage you to come to me in spite of your fears. I will live a shorter life than you, yes, but that just means that I’ll grow wiser sooner.” She paused as he chuckled. “Use me. God knows I use you.”

Jazz nodded slowly, as if the weight of all his anxieties were tied to his jaw. Then he gave her a hollow smile. “I will. Promise. While I still have you, I’ll get as much out of you as I can.”

Far more needed to be said. For now, though, they walked back to the base side-by-side.

Chapter Text

It had to be the recent baby fever. That was all it was. Surely.

“How do you not know?” JB signed furiously, trying and likely failing to not look as panicked as he felt.

Skyfire wasn’t helping matters. The big guy was still crouched on the floor, shoved in his corner of the lab with his hands splayed out on his knees uselessly.

“Well,” JB prompted, “did something happen to cause it?”

Slowly, achingly so, the shuttle nodded.

“Do you not have a way of not making a baby?”

Skyfire’s eyes narrowed guiltily. He nodded.

“Is that a yes to having something or yes to not having something?”

Again, he just nodded.

This was going nowhere. JB huffed and gave the lab a quick scan before deciding to make his way over to the panicking shuttle’s side. “Preceptor is welded to his computer,” he whispered once he was close enough for only Sky to hear him. “No one’s looking. Just tell me yes or no. Is there a chance you’re carrying?”

Sky hesitated. “Yes,” he signed, then added, “Me or Star.”

“Well, shit.”

“Low chance,” Sky added with a cant of his head. “Maybe no. I don’t know.”

“How soon can you know?”

Again, Sky hesitated, but this time for the sake of mental math rather than fear or guilt. He shook his hands to signal a language change. “Two weeks.” For him. Two weeks on the ‘Bot’s schedule. Shaking his hands again, he estimated, “Sixty weeks.”

JB resisted the urge to pull a Muzhir, pushing his hands to his forehead rather than through his hair. “How?” he begged to know. “How does this even happen? You-know-what exists, I know I’ve heard about it.”

“But no one knows of Star,” Sky pointed out then motioned with shaky hands to himself. “My block expired millions of years ago. Forgot time happened.”

“Surely, you-know-who has something.”

“Not needed.” The mech shrugged. Despite everything, he wasn’t able to keep from smiling. “Loyal bird-mine.”

“That’s an oxymoron, and you know it.” Still, it made sense. If Starscream hadn’t had any other partners to sleep with since Sky “died”, then why get…whatever the Cybertronian equivalent of birth control was. And it wasn’t as if Sky had been around long enough to grasp just how much time had passed since “dying”. The dude still asked for equipment that no longer existed.

And JB knew, in the back of his mind, what Sky had really been up to when he’d been supposedly confined in the lab the last few months. Well, he knew Starscream was involved in some way. Not this way.

“The only thing we can do is wait, then?” At Sky’s nod, he sighed and ran his hands down his face. “Then we wait and see if you two just caused an inter-factional incident.”

“Right.” Sky cringed more to himself than to JB’s insinuation. “Maybe fine. Yes. Fine. No baby birds. We’re fine.”

That certainly didn’t inspire confidence. Neither did the excursion Sky took him on the following week.

“How do you forget to update your baffles?” Starscream, well, screamed. His wings flung about as wildly as his arms as he spoke. “They were about to expire on our trip! That was the whole plan! How did you forget?”

Sky fluttered his wings, looking like he was prepared to defend his terrible choices. But realization stopped him. “You still remember when my baffles expire?”

The question dripped with a sappiness Starscream in no way matched. “That was the whole point of—!” The seeker looked ready to implode but by some miracle calmed down with a few vents. “We would go on our excursion, get our bonuses from the extraordinary work we accomplished, then start trying to spark. All of this,” he summarized with a circular wave of his hands, “revolved around when your baffles expired. Of course, I remember that. It was one of the last, life-altering conversations we had before you decided to die.”

Whatever joy Sky had derived from insinuated sweetness faded in an instant. A kind of spite replaced it. “Aye, and when were you planning on asking your doctor for baffles?”

The seeker went stiff. “Never.”

“Never? Well, me neither.” Sky pointed at Starscream’s chest. “Love, how am I supposed to ask for baffles from my current medic when not one of them knows I have a partner to ‘face with?”

“Well, love, how am I supposed to ask for one when Megatron has access to my medical files?”

“And there we have an impasse.” Skyfire crossed his arms proudly. “We were right idiots ‘facing when neither of us had the means to not spark the other.”

It never failed to amuse JB, that way his giant, soft friend could wrangle such a fierce enemy with unheard of (pun intended) ease. Of course, he laughed at Starscream’s pathetic deflating of wings. And of course, said seeker turned all his ire on him.

The seeker signed so fast whatever he meant to say was muddled. An insult then. JB just signed back a slow, “Funny bird.”

“You’re not helping,” Starscream sneered out loud.

“He’s my emotional support human.” Sky patted his husband on the head. “You ought to get one yourself, love, or else use JB here while you have him, like.”

Starscream didn’t bother pushing the shuttle’s hand away, just gave Sky a side-eye.

Amusing as the two were, there was a legitimate reason for their meeting, one JB was determined to get back to. For the sake of his sanity if not the state of the war itself. “It’s both your faults. Get passed that. What do we do if one of you is carrying?”

Both flyers gawked at him blankly. Eventually, Starscream remarked, “I’d explode.”

“Ah, sure, you’d be fine.” Sky may have smiled reassuringly, but JB was with Starscream on this one. They looked at each other then at the massive shuttle nearly twice Starscream’s height and width.

“Good point,” JB muttered, “but not what I was getting at. Aren’t both factions going to be horribly confused if one of you were to pop out a kid suddenly?”

Starscream’s wings fluttered with confidence. He banged a fist to his palm as he said with far too much conviction, “I’ll get Soundwave overcharged and pretend it’s his!”

“Huh?” Sky pushed down one of Starscream’s wings to properly look at his husband’s face. “Why Soundwave?”

“You don’t know how many different mechs he’s slept with. Just look at all the little gremlins he’s spawned! They were all manner of shapes and colors!” The grin Star dawned was full of suave security. “He wouldn’t question getting me sparked if I trick him into thinking we’re both too wasted to remember.”

“What if he has baffles installed?”

“He doesn’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Knock Out told me once.” Starscream chuckled fondly at a memory. “He was too far gone for confidentiality. I was after getting intel from him, but he spilled about Soundwave never getting contraception from him. Poor bloke doesn’t like interfacing, apparently.”

Sky seemed to wait for a realization from Star that never came. Thus, he had to spell it out. “If Soundwave doesn’t interface, how could you convince him you two did?”

Starscream had no answer to that. Hence the immediate change in topics. “What if you’re the one carrying?”

“Aye, that shouldn’t be near the same problem.” Skyfire motioned down at himself. “Sure, I’ll be a worried mess. But at least I could hide it well.”

“Well, what if you can’t?” Starscream challenged, poking Sky’s core. “Just because I’m small doesn’t mean my offspring will be! You could have three yous in there. Hide that!”

“I probably still can.”

JB waved to get the two idiots’ attention. “You’re still missing the point! What are either of you going to do with a cross-faction baby? How is that going to affect the plan for…whatever the plan is to end the war?”

Again, the pair stared at him with matching vacancy in their eyes.

Last resorts, then. “You two have a god?”

Starscream scoffed. “Divinity isn't limited to one deity, imbecile.”

“Then you better pray to all of them neither of you are carrying. Because if you are, we’re screwed.”

Despite everything, laughter bubbled up out of Skyfire’s frame. “Aye, lad, screwing is what got us here.”

The screechy language Starscream muttered in was still too foreign for JB to decipher. Regardless, the fond insult was clear if only by Skyfire’s renewed laughter.

“Never—” JB started, raising his hands to emphasize the repeated sign, “Never do that again. Too close to disaster.”

Skyfire’s dopey smile just made his swirling sign to “say that again” all the more amusing. “Lucky me. Never again.” He vented, as if sighing in relief, then his face hardened. “Check again.”

JB motioned for his friend to open his chest again, trying to school his expression. There didn’t need to be judgement here. This was a day of immense relief from a possible escalation of an already brutal war. So, he stepped back as far as he could on the counter and craned his neck to look up and into the glow of Skyfire’s spark. And once again, he flipped down his sunglasses to see it all properly.

There was a huge mess of circuitry and stuff surrounding the thick metal sphere laid in the center of the chest. The panels in the front of it parted to expose a cluster of bright crystals. One cluster. Only one. They were in the clear.

“And Star?”

“Same.” Skyfire leaned all his weight on his palms, closing his chest as he did so. His head overshadowed JB’s form. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I know this was stressful for you, too.”

“Mainly because I knew I’d help you regardless the outcome.” JB walked over to set a hand on Sky’s. His friend’s features were difficult to see what with Sky blocking the overhead lights. Still, the emotions rolling off the mech were blaring. “Are you okay?”

In a tone just barely audible, Sky admitted, “A little sad. Relieved, of course, but…this was a reminder of what could have been.” His wings folded down against his back. “Not so long ago, I’d have been thrilled by a happy accident. Star, too. I wish we could go back there to that time.” He rose slightly, just enough to wave off his admission. “Aye, I know. I need to move forward not wallow over a past I no longer have.”

“You can still mourn it.”

Sky hummed, frowning as much with his wings as his mouth. JB didn’t miss the quick glance sent his way nor the somber haze over Sky’s eyes. “Time for mourning has ended. I won’t find my peace in the past. Only thing I can do now is hope the wind brings me a better tomorrow and that I might have the strength to let it lift me.” Rising fully revealed the steadiness hardening his face. “Fright over. Time for us to get back to work.”

Chapter Text

The funeral only lasted a few minutes. Tegan wasn’t sure what to make of that. At least, they decided they had done the right thing attending when no one else would.

“I still don’t understand,” Red lamented when they drove away from the graveyard. “Do humans form tightly knit packs or not?”

“We do. Most of the time.” Tegan pressed their cheek on the window, watching Inferno drive behind them in the side mirror. “My cousin made some choices our family didn’t agree with.”

Red went quiet a moment. “Similar to yours?”

“No, she wasn’t queer. She did a lot of drugs, slept around with a lot of people.”

“Well, that’s no reason not to mourn her loss.” A car zoomed out in front of them, and Red stifled a curse as she moved over to the next lane. “This is why I hate leaving the base. Humans do not know how to drive!”

Tegan chuckled as they sat up in the driver seat. “It’s just Florida. Need me to take over?”

“Please do. I’ll display the directions on screen for you.”

The car hummed like its engine was going idle. Tegan unfurled their legs to press down on the petal and take the wheel, spurring them forward. A moment later, the screen on Red’s dashboard lit up with a map. They were twelve minutes away.

“Nervous?”

“A little,” they whispered. “Trying not to think about it.”

“My therapist claimed avoidance behavior is only situationally useful. If you need to discuss how you’re currently feeling—”

“I’ll talk to Inferno, I know.”

“Very good, yes. Though I…I would argue I know a few things about feeling panicked when rushed into things.”

“I know you do,” they reassured with a pat to the dashboard. “Hence why I’m still confused why you chose a Lambo, of all things, as an alt.”

“It was the only vehicle in-base my frame-type suited!”

“Well, you look like Sideswipe.”

“How dare you.”

Tegan laughed too hard to think of another comeback. Which was perfectly fine. The topic had been successfully changed, however brief it was.

The hospital was sterile and cold. Tegan was grateful, then, for the strange neutrality of holding a holoform’s hand. Red was there beside them, Inferno at their backs, while they followed a nurse down to the NICU.

No part of them ever wanted this. Navi’s babies had been great at a distance since they could play with Mel and Jackie then give them back to their moms if either child cried. And those two were healthy, happy babies. But this? The little freaky alien in a see-through box with all manners of wires attached to them? Anxiety incarnate.

But Red and Inferno were with them, and so they accepted the baby when its spindly form was offered.

They didn’t fall instantly in love like those people in movies. The baby boy snuggled into their chest had their heart racing in sheer fear sooner than adoration. Regardless, this boy was theirs, now. Not a damn soul would convince them otherwise.

“I got you,” Tegan whispered as quietly as possible, as if afraid their very breath might break this fragile being. “I promise. I will never leave you.”

Inferno’s hearty laugh forced the boy’s dark eyes open. “Hey, little guy,” he drawled, “better watch out ‘cause they mean it.” The holoform stuck out a finger to wave it in the baby’s blank face. “You ain’t ever going to be alone.”

After much deliberation, they named him Redford.

“He’s cute,” Navi gushed over the picture on Tegan’s phone. “You said he can come home next week?”

“Yeah, next Wednesday.”

Muzhir took their shoulders in his hands, shaking them a little for emphasis. “We are here. You cannot and will not be navigating any part of this alone.” When Tegan muttered an acknowledgement, he dawned his newfound dad-voice. “I mean it. We are going to bother you unless you let us help.”

“You wouldn’t deny me the chance to be a good uncle,” JB teased. “Would you?”

“No, of course not.” Tegan took a deep breath in to calm themselves. “But what do any of you know of fetal drug exposure or—or even preemies, for that matter?”

“Farah and I had a horrific time on google.”

“Exactly my point.”

Navi sighed, setting the phone back in Tegan’s hand and giving them a stern look. “The situation is not ideal. You have no experience with a baby with his specific prenatal issues. You had no time to process having custody of him. But guess what?” She grabbed Tegan’s face with both hands. “You are going to make do with what you have. And what you have includes all of us and two equally nervous ‘Bots.”

“And google.”

Navi flicked Muzhir’s hair fondly. “Google is the worst thing for your mental health, right now. Focus on what the doctors told you. They know Redford’s situation better than any of us.”

“Okay,” Tegan breathed. “Thanks, mom.” They received a playful flick to their hair as well. “Honest! I feel terrible about it, but you’re my best reference for how to be a parent.” They glanced as far over as they could given Navi’s hold of their head. “No offense, Muzhir.”

“Oh, none taken. I use her, too.” He shook their shoulders again. “Farah is more than willing to help as well. Saleem was premature, so she knows what it’s like to have a baby in NICU, albeit under less stressful circumstances.”

“Okay,” they breathed again in a vain attempt to make the word mean something. “Okay,” they said with more gusto. “We’re going to be okay.”

Redford was so very small. Even after months of chunking up, he never seemed to get as big as Melody or Jackie had ever been at the same age.

That was a theme with him. His weight, his awareness, his cognition, his mobility—he was always a few steps behind in his milestones. Which was expected, and Tegan did their best to remind themselves of that fact. Still, it was hard not to slip into negative thoughts when Navi and Monica donated some of Jackie’s and Mel’s old baby clothes, none of which fit quite right.

Enter Red Alert in all her wisdom. “We move at our own paces. The more you view him as inhibited or harmed, the more you are bound to worry over every one of his achievements.”

Tegan typed and printed out the Red-ism to tack up to their kitchenette cabinet. Every morning, after getting up to prep Redford’s bottle, they recited the advice to themselves. Doing so eased their features into a smile while they moved themself and Redford through their morning routine.

“You move at your own pace,” they’d tell him as they fought with too-big baby clothes and a delicate five-month-old. “No faster, no slower.”

Thus, they pushed aside worries of delays when a year then two passed by without a first word. Leave diagnoses to the professionals. They were a parent, not a doctor. And so, they kept narrating every little thing they did and telling Redford all about this and that. When he decided to speak was up to him.

All this rationality took a flying leap out the window when it finally happened.

Navi was at their side the instant she noticed tears. Muzhir was pulling out his phone, tapping away to call someone. JB just stood uselessly at their side with his hands held out to either say something or take the baby from Tegan.

“I’m fine,” Tegan sobbed, their smile smothered in tears.

Muzhir moved closer to clasp their shoulder. “I have Inferno on the line. He and Red are rushing over.”

Navi shook her head. “Tegan, what’s wrong?” She nodded to the baby on Tegan’s hip idly chewing his fingers. “’Ford looks fine, are you?”

A grin split their face in half. “He called me ‘mom’.”

“Oh,” Navi sighed, looking between JB and Muzhir. Neither man had a single thought to share. “Are…are you alright?”

Tegan nodded. Doing so only opened the flood gates. “You didn’t tell me!”

“Tell you what?” Navi laughed as she wiped at their now-soaked cheeks.

“It—” Tegan sobbed “—it was euphoric. You didn’t tell me it would be so—so much.”

“I know,” Navi sang. “This is exciting, but are you okay? With this being his first word?”

Before Tegan could even think to answer, JB was laughing over them. “As if it’s his first! He’s been signing ‘more cookies’ for months.” He quirked a brow. “Among others,” he signed with an air of mischief.

“Oh!” Tegan slipped away from Navi’s hold to grab JB with their free hand. “If he’s going to know sign, he needs to know how to ask for me.”

“As in…mom or dad or—” he waved his hands aimlessly then lit up. “Wait, you could use something else.” JB spread a hand out, pressing the tip of his thumb to his chin. “Mom,” he translated, then moved to press the thumb to his forehead, “and Dad. Go from one to other to say ‘parent’.”

Tegan mimicked the sign carefully. Confident they had it down, they picked up one of Redford’s hands to help him through it as well. “For me,” they explained. Gasping around the lump in their throat, they added, “For mom.”

A thick arm encased them in a one-arm hug. They didn’t need to look up to know it was Muzhir staring fondly at the baby repeating the new sign over and over again. “We could think up a gender-neutral word for you in English.”

Tegan considered the offer as they fiddled with the buttons on Redford’s flannel. Red (of course) with dark stripes to look like Inferno. A soft material for Red Alert’s peace of mind. Flannel because, well, Navi was the one who bought it for him. It still fit loosely on his little body. So, when he made to grasp at their hand, the sleeves caught on his palms.

He looked at them like they were his entire world. “Mom.”

“Yeah?” They bounced the boy just to make him smile. “If that’s what I am for you.”

The arm on their shoulders squeezed them into Muzhir’s soft side. “He won’t notice if we teach him a different word to use.”

They shook their head, gaze never leaving Redford’s dark brown eyes. “If he sees me as his mom, then that word is already mine.”

Chapter Text

Muzhir was leaning on the railing of the rec room’s upper deck with Farah, watching their kids run circles around Sideswipe and Bluestreak, when Optimus walked over. The mech’s subtle smile was all he needed to know Optimus was seeking company, not work. And so, Muzhir stood up to turn his body towards the huge mech.  

“Optimus,” Farah greeted. “I hope you’re well.”

“Better now,” the mech said in a low, tired gravel. He leaned his shoulder into the wall next to the deck as his attention moved to the kids. “It is nice to see Sideswipe and Bluestreak playing with your children. They still seem so young to me, regardless how many times I have fought beside them.”

Muzhir nudged his wife, nodding in agreement. “Blue and the twins were all born during the war,” he explained. To Optimus, he added, “Hopefully we can keep our kids as innocent as possible.”

“You worry too much,” Farah chuckled with a fondness she reserved for him. “I wouldn’t have married you or moved to this base—to this life—if I didn’t trust you with our lives.”

The subtle smile brightened, but Muzhir didn’t miss the way Optimus’s eyes dulled as if their light faded somewhere distant. He didn't ask about it, either. Why bring up Elita One when he was here being loved on by his wife? While Optimus stood alone?

Still, the mech’s voice was as calm as ever as he remarked, “Your faith is honorable, Farah. I can assure you one thing: you have married a remarkable individual worthy of that faith.”

He may have blushed at the compliment, but his wife just laughed and grabbed his hair to tug his cheek close for a kiss. “You think so, Optimus?” she teased. “I’m tempted to keep him.”

“As you should.” Prime never laughed. This Muzhir knew to be true. But he swore he heard a hint of humor in those few words.

Brief though that conversation had been, it resurfaced when Optimus called him to the east entrance. No questions asked, Muzhir drove down in his side-by-side, mulling uselessly over to what extent Prime seemed to trust him.

The argument had started long before he got there, and it persisted long after. He sat leaning on the side-by-side’s hood for at least an hour while he watched the Wreckers live up to their reputation. All of them soaked in energon or dirt or both. One member still lying on a gurney forgotten and greyed. Those who could stand were yelling.

Nothing Optimus was doing mediated anything. Granted, the subjects of the Wreckers’ ire weren’t helping matters. Sideswipe was throwing curses and rude gestures. Sunstreaker growled threats. And the shorter mech behind them just looked pissed.

While not exactly fluent, Muzhir prided himself on being able to understand Standard more than most. But with all the shouting, insults, and names involved, he had no idea what was going on.

Thank Allah Optimus finally blew a fuse. “Enough!”

The Wreckers went silent. Sideswipe seized the opportunity to gesture rudely at his own aft.

“To both parties, Sideswipe.” Optimus gave the kid a disappointed look.

Which Sides completely ignored. “They’re the ones who nearly killed Tracks!”

Bulkhead stomped forward, shaking a fist at the kid. “Your deadbeats killed Seaspray!”

Ya Allah, this could not turn into another hour of yelling. “Hold on!” he shouted with a wave of his hands to get the mechs’ attention. He somewhat succeeded. “Hold on! One side at a time. You will tell me what happened and who this new mech is.” He pointed to the Wreckers first. “One of you, go. I’m timing you.”

The Wreckers scrambled over each other for a minute in a failed attempt to organize themselves. Eventually, Springer pushed forward. “We confronted a couple of ‘Cons we spotted hanging around too close to a human town. The ‘Cons attacked us, we attacked back, and the two managed to kill Seaspray. This youngling happened to be with them,” he explained, motioning to the mech standing behind the twins.

“I didn’t ‘happen’ to be there, dimwit.”

Muzhir signed for the mech to wait. Before he could say anything, though, Bulkhead stomped close to the trio.

“So you admit to being a ‘Con!”

Sides roared something. Sunny clenched his fists.

“No, no!” Muzhir called out and made a be-line for the twins. “Bulk, it’s their turn to speak now. Go wait your follow-up turn.”

With Optimus guiding the Wreckers several steps back, he was free to address the twins. “Alright, tell me what happened.”

Sides looked more than ready to lay out exactly what he thought of the situation, but his twin’s calm hand on his shoulder soothed him to a simmer. “We weren’t there,” Sunny explained plainly. “This is our kid brother. He was just existing, and the Wreckers nearly got him killed. He took off. We went to pick him up. Wreckers got angry when we did.”

Muzhir nodded along. That there was no mention of the two Decepticons who apparently started all this was clue enough to him who they were. The twins didn’t need to add their parentage to an already volatile mixture.

So, he turned around to address the Wreckers again. “Follow-up time. Why engage the ‘Cons if this child was under their care? You could have—and seem to have—put a minor’s life in danger.”

Several voices blurted out excuses all at once. “The ‘Cons attacked us!” “Have you seen Seaspray?” “They were dirty ‘Cons!” It all blurred together. Optimus had to shout at them again to tone it down.

“Do you not think it makes sense for them to have attacked you?” Muzhir pushed, confident Optimus and the twins would keep him from being squished. “If the two were looking after this child, and several enemies approached them, why wouldn’t they fight back?”

As expected, the unit didn’t take that very well. But it needed to be said and said by someone who was to some extent external. Optimus nodded at him in leu of a proper thank you as he and Ironhide corralled the angry Wreckers.

Once Springer popped out of the huddle, he took Prime’s place as mediator. Which allowed Optimus to turn his attention towards the other half of this conflict. “Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, is your brother secure in your custody?”

“Yes, sir,” the twins said in unison.

“Very well.” Optimus looked off behind them. “Red Alert looks unhappy about an unknown entity entering the base. I will handle them. For now, the three of you go with Muzhir. He will perform his own investigation.”

While Muzhir offered a solute of acknowledgement, Sides gave Prime a nasty glare. “Any brother of ours is not unknown.”

Prime wasn’t in the least bit fazed, just pointed down at Sides. “Behave for Muzhir. Or I will be forced to have you reread the Autobot handbook.”

“Never again,” Sides shuttered.

The twins obediently headed for the conference rooms. Their brother, however, hadn’t budged. Muzhir looked the kid over in search of some reason for noncompliance, but all he found were eyes mesmerized by Prime.

Small and awkward, the kid tried to seem cool with a curt incline of his chin and unflattering smolder. “Sweet rims.”

Still unfazed, Prime just walked away.

“Dude!” Sides grabbed the kid’s arm and yanked him after them. In a yelling whisper, he scolded, “You can’t just flirt with the Prime.”

Muzhir couldn’t not laugh. He and Sunny exchanged incredulous looks as the latter picked him up.

“Why not?”

“You’re, like, two.”

“Eighteen. Get it right.”

Cybertronians aged slower, Muzhir reminded himself. Eighteen vorns was more like a fifteen-year-old in human terms. Glancing over his shoulder, he tried to gauge the age of the new ‘Bot. He’d only ever known adults, and this kid certainly seemed similar to one albeit smaller. Maybe the edges of his plating were smoother, but he came up to Sides’s chest, a fairly average height for ‘Bots.

His muses were cut short by them entering one of the conference rooms. Sunstreaker set him down on the table while the three brothers settled in their seats, the twins guarding either side of the newcomer.

Muzhir took out his recorder and got to work. “To clarify, this is just a discussion to assess the situation without outside interference. You’ve already been cleared, uh…” He motioned to the smaller mech.

The kid crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back as if he owned the room. “Tracklines. Call me Tracks.”

“Tracks, then. Welcome to the base.” Muzhir gave him a bright smile. “Let’s start with how well you know Earth. Have you been here long?”

“Since the ‘20s.”

Good. He wouldn’t be too shocked by humans. Muzhir considered the kid and the twins sitting beside him. All three were not necessarily flashy, but they each had a style to them. So, he made an educated guess. “Good time for cars?”

Tracks lit up. Bright red eyes widened with excitement. “No, the best was the ‘50s and ‘60s. One of my parents used a 1954 Gullwing as an alt until he found the 1964 Astin Martin DB5. Gorgeous vehicle! He’s been pretty loyal to the Martins ever since. I’m still partial to my 1967 Corvette Stingray. Makes me one of twenty-one in existence!”

Muzhir nodded like he knew what any of that meant. Despite living in such close quarters to cars, he knew very little about the non-living variety. “So, you’ve been here with your parents since the ‘20s?” When he received a nod, he added, “And both of them still consider themselves Decepticons?”

This, Sideswipe answered. “That doesn’t matter. Everyone here knows where we come from. They either try to forget about it or ignore it.”

The emotion in Sides’s voice was one Muzhir unfortunately recognized. He sat down to ensure he seemed less professional, more friendly. “Do you know why I joined the military?”

Tracks scoffed. “Thought this was an interrogation.”

“Conversation.” Muzhir crossed his legs (with only a little difficulty) and settled his hands on his knees. “In America, people who look like me and my family are often portrayed and perceived as terrorists. Even by my fellow soldiers here on base and leadership directly linked to me.

“I know more than most what it’s like to have colleagues make negative assumptions about my character based on my skin and expressions of faith.” Muzhir indicated Tracks’s red eyes. But he looked to the twins as he asked, “Do you two look like your brother?”

Sideswipe was silent. Neither twin moved, at first. After a moment of deep thought, though, they each reached up to tinker with something on the sides of their helms. Their optics flickered before the blue gave way to a pair of gold and red eyes, each matching their respective twin.

“I understand the desire to blend in,” Muzhir offered, “but nothing is going to get better if you hide.”

Sunny’s face hardened. “We aren’t hiding. Just taking the loss. Prowl and Jazz are appeased with the screens, and I get to stay with Bluestreak. It’s worth it.”

He wasn’t about to argue the valid point. Besides, no matter how uncomfortable the remark made him, the focus needed to remain on the matter at hand. “Back to your parents, then. Tracks, I understand you are probably still close to them. What about you two?” Before either could answer, he waved for them to pause. “No judgement. I just need to know how much of a risk they pose so I can give Red Alert an ‘all is well’ report.”

The three glanced at each other. Little tells in facial expressions and shrugs gave away their silent conversation over bonds. All three froze when the door opened. The twins relaxed once they saw who had entered.

“Sorry,” Tegan whispered once Sides helped them up on the table. “Red wants me in here.”

Muzhir didn’t rise from his seat, instead encouraging his friend to sit beside him. “Tracks, this is my close friend Tegan. They have my full support as a colleague and a friend of many years.” He motioned for the three to resume their private discussion.

Eventually, Tracks sat up, leaning in close enough to make out the details in his red eyes and the way their light reflected off his orange face. “I was happy,” he bit out. “We have been living here with no problems until those fiends attacked us.”

The twins propped their forearms on the table. Sides spoke for them. “We’ve been meeting up with them ever since we landed on Earth. That was a big reason why we traveled here with Prime’s crew instead of Prowl’s.” He gave Sunny a sad glance.

“It’s okay,” Tegan assured, motioning to themself. “You can disagree with family and still call them your family.”

Muzhir nodded. “If anything, I’m glad the three of you are close to your parents regardless of politics. Though,” he added when Tegan nudged his arm, “being close to Decepticons right now is risky. Would you be willing to disclose who they are?”

The mechs stiffened, so Tegan intervened. “I know we probably have that on file. For this record, however, we need it noted so your story matches the description the Wreckers give us. Since, well, they apparently killed one of ours.”

“He had it coming,” Tracks hissed. “That mech tried to kill us first.”

Sunstreaker huffed. “In war, everyone is trying to kill each other.” To Muzhir and Tegan, he asked, “You need just the names or names and context?”

Tegan lifted at that. “Context, if you don’t mind.”

Though Muzhir made to protest, Sides shrugged it off. “It’s old news, dude. Their names are Knock Out and Breakdown. The two joined the Autobots when the war started. Knock Out became a doctor, Breakdown joined the Wreckers. Hence how we,” he motioned to himself, his twin, and the Autobot insignias painted on their chests, “got here.

“Circumstances changed, and they were forced to defect.” Sides shrugged casually. “We were still minors at the time. Prowl and Jazz got custody of us. No hard feelings. At least, not between us and our parents.”

“It’s been a well-known secret for the longest,” Sunstreaker sighed. “Here on Earth should have been no different.”

Tegan took a moment to process this, then gave all three mechs a pointed look. “None of you wish to change sides, correct?”

The twins nodded adamantly. Tracks, however, sneered. “I’m Switzerland, thank you very much.”

Muzhir leaned over to whisper to his friend, “Kid’s about fifteen. We’ll mark him down as a civilian.”

“Agreed.” Louder, Tegan explained, “Your status as a neutral will not be challenged given you are still a minor. And once I check with Red and Prime about your sneak-outs, you’re cleared.”

“Alright, then.” Muzhir breathed through the motions of rolling to his feet, sighing once he was rightened. “This is going to be a massive change for all of you, Tracks especially.”

Sides leaned back with a chuckle in his chest. “We’re fine. We’re too used to adapting ever since our parents fled the Autobots.”

Tegan’s curiosity was practically tangible. There was nothing Muzhir could do to stop them from asking, “Why exactly did they need to flee? I mean, I’m sure there’s a record of their account somewhere, but if you don’t mind my asking of your perspectives…”

The twins huffed, but Sides replied without further prompting. “Whatever is on record probably isn't the whole truth. It was a red mark on the Autobot justice system. I’ll leave it at that.”

Optimus and Red Alert were waiting for them in the hall. The three brothers brushed passed them without a care for authority, and Muzhir couldn’t blame them. Tegan was immediately swept away by Red, the two of them conspiring about what to do with the new intel. That left Muzhir alone with the Prime.

What better time than now to get an answer from the mech? “Did you call me down here just to get the twins and Tracks to open up about what happened?”

“Valuable though the Wreckers are in combat, their perspectives are too often skewed. That, and I was sure no one else was better suited to empathize with the three since you, as well, have some connection to your faction’s enemy.”

Never had he felt such immediate and all-consuming anger directed at any one of the ‘Bots. Yet, here he was. Stepping back to properly fume at Optimus Prime. “My heritage is no one’s enemy. If anything, it is the faction I have sworn my life to who bullies and butchers innocents.”

He jammed a finger in the air at Optimus’s face, making sure they locked eyes. “That is why I joined the military in the first place. To ensure someone like me was in the room where decisions were made about people like me and my family.”

The leader of the Autobots took a step back. “I did not mean to suggest the brothers or you were in any regard a reflection of the enemy.”

“Everyone is, in some way, a reflection of their enemy. Those who believe otherwise are blind to themselves and their own flaws. That kind of ignorance is dangerous.”

“I do not disagree with you. I…I am sorry to have misspoken.”

“I don’t want your apology, Prime.” The sigh was entirely involuntary, merely a feature of his present exhaustion. “I want you to open your eyes and see the evil within yourself and the good within your enemy. Otherwise, this war of yours will remain endless.” As it so often did, the Quran came to mind, urging him to paraphrase its contents. “Repel these evils with good by being patient, merciful, and forgiving.”

Motioning down the hall where the brothers had fled, he ordered, “Start with them. Start by patiently telling Prowl and Jazz to let the twins have their natural optics back. And stand by them when your people inevitably give them grief for it.”

For a long moment, Optimus just stared down at him, seemingly shell shocked. Whether by the fact a small, insignificant human was ordering him around or something else, Muzhir didn’t know or care. When the mech finally did speak, the words were soft. “This—the way you patiently and adamantly correct me—this is why I want you as my liaison and human advisor.”

Not in any way an acceptance of the task he’d been given. Muzhir crossed his arms over his chest. “‘Advisor’ isn't in my job description.”

“And yet, you continue to advise me.” A subtle smile smoothed Optimus’s features. “And I am all the more grateful for you.”

Muzhir had no expectations the situation with Tracks was suddenly over just because he gave Optimus a stern talking to. Of course, he was right to keep an eye on the three brothers. Not a week later—the same day in Cybertronian time—a near brawl had broken out in the rec room. The next day, the twins were sporting blue optics again.

He should have known then, when he first noted the unease plaguing Sides, that he’d be needed sooner rather than later. Why he was so surprised by Sides stopping him in the halls, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was ill-placed hope. Maybe willful avoidance. It didn’t really matter.

They holed up in the brothers’ empty quarters for some privacy. The flood gates flew open.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sides breathed, a sob lodged in his throat he couldn’t quite keep down. “I remember when I was little, I’d get comments. Like, people would ask me when I was going to get screens to start looking like an Autobot. I distinctly remember crying to my parents one night and them holding me as they told me that I looked like me. That being me was more important than being an Autobot.”

Sides shifted so he was no longer hugging his knees but holding his hands out uselessly. “I—I know that should be true. I didn’t even think about it back then. My, uh, my mom has red eyes like mine. He told me he stopped wearing blue screens when I was born so I wouldn’t be alone.” His vents hitched. “Now, I have to be that for Tracks, right?”

Muzhir nodded, both to agree and encourage Sides to keep talking this out.

“My brother needs me to be a model for him to look up to. But—but how the hell am I supposed to do that?” He whipped an arm out to motion at the people outside their door. “I can’t stir shit up! ‘Cause I’m afraid, if I do, I’ll screw over Sunny and Blue by angering Prowl or Jazz. So—so—” His vents came in quick succession. “I don’t know if I have to be a brother or an Autobot! I mean, I know the right thing to do is be a brother first. But I can’t—”

Tears started falling as Sides vented. Muzhir didn’t call attention to them. He was far more concerned with the kid’s mindset of there being only one option or the other. “Sideswipe, you can be both. And you are so very right about leading by example for your little brother. That is far more important than making other ‘Bots happy.”

Sides nodded, shaking a few tears free. Calmer now with validation on his side, he spoke more clearly. “When I was younger and was told things, I had my parents to hold me when I cried. But that isn't an option anymore and hasn’t been since they were kicked out. I don’t…I don’t know if I need to prioritize behaving for my twin’s sake or standing in solidarity for my little brother’s sake.”

A concerning rhetoric, one Muzhir was not going to allow to fester. “Sideswipe, answer me honestly. Do you have reason to believe anyone, especially Jazz, is going to tell you something if you stopped wearing screens?”

The kid just stared at his lap for the longest.

“Has Jazz told you something before?”

For someone usually so loud and vibrant, Sides’s whispered admission was blaring. “I had to start wearing them after my parents defected ‘cause people told me I looked too much like a ‘Con. Said it was dangerous for me to be on the battlefield. Might get mistaken.”

“Your insignia takes up most of your chest.”

“Doesn’t matter. People don’t look for that.”

A hollowness had taken over the whisper, seemingly draining the hope right out of Sides’s soul. Muzhir recognized it, but there was only so much he could do to help replenish the kid. “You still have access to your parents, yes?” When Side’s didn’t answer, he pushed as much comfort into his next words as possible. “It is okay to go to them for support. Clearly, you have been through a lot and still have a lot on your plate right now. As a son and as a parent, I promise you it is not weak to cry on your parents.”

Teary-eyed and exhausted, Sides nodded. “I’m afraid Tracks will end up a coward like me.”

“You have good instincts. Follow the one urging you to be an example for him. Start now.” Poor kid finally looked at him just to showcase pure terror. “Right now.”

“But—”

“No buts. You are going to be a leader if not for yourself then for Tracks.” Nodding firmly, Muzhir made to move within the mech’s reach. “Now, hoist me up.”

Sides’s face didn’t so much as twitch out of the fearful expression, but the stress trapped there eased once Muzhir was standing on his shoulder. “You’re coming with me?”

“I refuse to leave you alone.” Muzhir gave the shoulder a soft pat. “I promise to be here as you tackle this new role. Now, get up, and let’s go.”

In spite of the shake in his legs and the tears still in his eyes, Sideswipe stood up. He wiped his face and flicked the blue lens off. Then they headed to the rec room together. With how distracted he was in psyching himself up, he didn't notice Muzhir texting someone in his periphery.

The sight they came upon…. Ya Allah, Muzhir would remember the utter hope shining in Tracks’s big red eyes for the rest of his life. The child’s full attention was glued to his older brother, the two of them locking crimson gazes.

A remark was made. Maybe two. Muzhir stayed steady on Sides’s shoulder. It wasn’t until Gears made a complaint of seeing enough red orbs on the battlefield that Sideswipe clinched his fists.

“That is enough.” Prime’s booming commander-voice echoed throughout the rec room. Gears worked his mouth around excuses, but Optimus was already on him. “Sideswipe is no less an Autobot than you, Gears. I would advise against being so openly prejudiced to either him or Tracks. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Gears muttered and sulked away.

But by now, Muzhir wasn’t looking at the altercation. His gaze was basking in the way Sides gazed up at Optimus like a child meeting a superhero. Thank Allah he had the foresight to tell Optimus to come here. It didn’t matter if the intervention was perfect or not. Just Optimus standing with his back to Sides, in the kid’s defense, did far more good.

The brothers went back to playing videogames under the protection of the Prime. Muzhir stayed right where he was. At some point, he noticed Optimus staring at him. Once their gazes met, the mech nodded in thanks. For the sake of these brothers and progress in the Autobot folds, he nodded back proudly.

Chapter Text

Boredom was every scientist’s worst nightmare. Or their greatest achievement, if they could handle it well. For years, JB thought Skyfire fell into the latter category. The big mech would quietly work at his desk, crunching numbers and struggling with new technology he’d never dreamed would exist, and pass his time with a content smile.

The novelty, evidently, wore off.

“No more,” Skyfire signed with a frown that mimicked his droopy wings. “Need something to do.”

“What’s Jetfire saying?” Perceptor asked. “I can hear his hands moving.”

“I can’t.”

“Jasper, your jests are unhelpful. As are yours, Brainstorm.”

How the blind guy knew Brainstorm was sneaking up on him, JB would never know. He’d never really thought the concept of other senses being heightened when one was lost was real (given his own experience), but it did seem like Percy could hear a human blink from a mile away. Then again…perhaps it was all a matter of perspective. Maybe Percy’s hearing was perfectly normal, and JB just couldn’t tell.

A chuckle from Brainstorm immediately jerked JB from his thoughts. The mad scientist laughing was never a good sign.

Sky seemed to agree, side-stepping away from the smaller flyer. “Crazy bird.”

“He’s signing again,” Percy droned.

“He’s saying he’s bored,” JB translated.

Brainstorm threw his servos up, eyes widening and brightening manically. “Wonderful!”

Percy cringed in the flyer’s general direction. “Well, perhaps if we had an idea of what field of study he was once a part of, we could help him find a proper project to assist us on.”

Skyfire rolled his helm to the side in his version of an eye roll. “He knows what I studied. Can’t do that or he’ll figure out I am me.” He gave Percy a judgmental glance. “Maybe.”

“What do you want to do?” JB signed back, giving his friend an incredulous look to make sure Sky knew he was at a loss for how to help, not being judgmental.

After a moment of consideration, Sky moved his hands hesitantly to say, “I could say I want to study humans. You could say you want to study us. We work together. But I am really studying my work.” He waved off the questioning look JB gave him. “Explain later.”

“OK.” To the impatiently waiting duo, JB said out loud, “Jetfire wants to study human biology. I think he’s trying to say that he’s curious how our anatomy works.”

Percy crossed his arms over his chest. His mouth opened like he was about to speak, but movement from Brainstorm had him uncrossing his arms to brace the flyer. “No.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

“Cannibalizing human technology is banned for a reason.”

“Okay, you do.” Brainstorm moved to stand directly in front of Percy. One of his hands raised, the digits folding to make a finger gun, and poked Percy’s forehead. “One of these days I’m going to figure out how you read my mind.”

“Simple. You telegraph your thoughts so plainly I can see them.”

“Funny,” Brainstorm mocked. “So…no working with them?”

“Absolutely not.”

Brainstorm let out a curse as he backed off to go sulk in his corner of the lab.

Percy shook his head then looked back in JB’s general direction, where he was standing on Skyfire’s desk. “We cannot just let this unknown entity work unsupervised with a valued human partner.”

“He’s not exactly unknown,” JB pointed out. “Jetfire hangs out with me all the time. I trust him, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Before Percy could deny him again, he rushed out, “And it’d be mutual. I’m curious how your mechanisms operate. He and I could study each other.”

Percy frowned. “No.”

That was the end of the discussion. At the time. Several (human) days of continuous prodding, however, were annoying enough for Perceptor to finally yield.

“So,” JB drawled once he was settled on Skyfire’s massive bed. The joy of finally getting their project greenlit still shook through his body, making him dance in his seat. “What is it you actually used to do?”

He’d only ever seen Skyfire smile this brightly in Starscream’s presence. Hence why he clamped his mouth and hands shut to give his friend his full attention.

“I told you once I studied energon on other worlds,” Sky started, his wings fluttering happily. “And that I could organize and upkeep the chemical cabinets in the lab. I wasn’t after lying to you, but my real work was in energon synthesis.”

Sky knelt before the berth with his hands propped up on the cushion to gesture vague signs as he spoke. “Energon is a crystalline solid, yes? The minerals which make it up are found in Cybertron’s earth, down to its very core. And from the core—in the earth—it ‘grows’ in long tendrils we can then mine.”

“Is that kind of like a salt mine?”

“I’ve not the faintest idea what salt is, but maybe. Point being, energon crystals are not necessarily a renewable resource since its recovery time is millennia. Our millennium, I mean. And as our population and energon consumption grew exponentially, shortages became an ever-growing threat to our most impoverished populations.

“My field of expertise lies in xenobiology, specifically studying the way energon crystals grow on alien worlds and how energon is processed in our and alien bodies. Now, consider this: what if we could—in a lab—replicate energon crystallization? Such that the resulting crystals can be processed and ingested to the same degree of efficiency as normal energon?”

JB nodded along. “You’d solve the energon shortage.”

Sky’s head and wings nodded excitedly. “We could solve the energon crisis.”

“Why are we discussing this, then?” JB motioned between them, at a loss for words for a long moment. “If you can make synthetic energon, you could single-handedly end your world hunger crisis.”

“Aye, I could.” The big lug shrugged. “If I ever got funding.”

“What?”

“Funding. The project is too costly.”

Were he not a scientist himself, JB might have been more flabbergasted.

Sky hissed as he cringed. “Besides, the last time I was given the funds to study energon crystallization on other worlds, I died in a blizzard.”

“How do you plan on continuing this cursed project, then?” JB had to ask. “We have our front, now. I don’t know how else to help.”

“It’s mostly using the data Star and I gathered before the war to test different conceptual methods on a program modeling standard energon processing and consumption. Which could take longer than I’d like if I can’t find a way of reading our data and my model on this new tech the lads have in the lab. Actual testing on specimens with actual crystals will come later.” His eyes looked off wistfully. “Ideally when I’m not after hiding out.”

That reminded him. “Percy knows about all this?”

“Aye, we worked in the same academy. I considered us friends, back then, what with how often we’d share notes and conversation.”

JB just stared. For several long seconds. “Perceptor knows you?”

Sky huffed out a bit of frustration. “He could be a right aft when I knew him. Still, I did think he’d recognize me when I woke here.”

“In his defense, he can’t recognize much of anything.”

“In his defense, it’s been some time now. Still,” Sky murmured. “I…I’ve always known I wasn’t a priority. Not in Vos, certainly not in Iacon or the academy. My students said they loved me, and my colleagues told me they enjoyed working on projects with me. But I have always been forgettable.”

“Not to me,” JB said on automatic.

“Aye. Not to Star or his trine, either,” Sky agreed with a soft smile. “Good thing I never set out to make a name of myself. I just came here to do as much good as one mech can.”

“Let’s do some good, then.” JB stood to move closer, to place a hand on Sky’s. “While we’re still here and able.”

Their momentum lasted two years.

“It’s too quiet,” Skyfire finally admitted after the whole gang, well, ganged up on him in the rec room. His tired attitude had gone on far too long for Muzhir’s liking.

The four of them made a show of looking around the space filled to the brim with chatting Autobots. “How?” Navi questioned as JB signed a faux translation. Just in case someone decided to be nosy.

Sky didn’t know how to properly explain himself in public, so the five of them slipped out and made their way to their usual conference room. There, Skyfire sank into a too-small chair and complained, “I am bored, simply put. There’s only so much I can do under the guise of not being able to collaborate with the science crew, and this place is too quiet.”

“You sit across from Brainstorm.”

“Not the kind of volume I’m after, JB.”

“Well,” Tegan thought out loud, “I don’t know what to tell you. If you don’t want to be outed yet, then there isn't much we can do to help.”

“I know, I know.” Sky ex-vented. “I’m not after complaining to get more out of you kind people. I just…” He shook his head then motioned to Navi. “My life used to be so much louder. I imagine more like yours.”

“What? With two kids and a horde of alien robots to babysit?”

“Ah, sure, you know it well, then!” Sky laughed, but the sound was too hollow, even to JB. “Understand me, I didn’t just work alongside Star at the academy. I also used to live in a small flat with him, Skywarp, and Thundercracker. Even when the pair moved out and it was just Star and me, we were always together at their home or ours, especially after TC and Warp had my nephew. My life was organized chaos, joyfully so.”

Tegan reeled back. “Starscream’s trine has a kid?” The remark was lost under Muzhir’s louder, “Understandable. Having a lot of time with family gives you very little room for quiet.”

“And it’s wonderful, is it not?” Sky added with a grin JB usually only saw around Starscream.

“Very,” Navi, Muzhir, and Tegan agreed in tandem.

“I’m not yet used to this silence is all,” Sky concluded, crossing his arm and lowering his wings in a sign of finality. “I will be. In time.”

It didn’t sit right with JB. Something in the way Sky’s eyes looked over them vacantly. Or was it the droopy wings? Regardless, he wouldn’t wish a life of utter silence on anyone. Even in his lowest moments, knowing there was the faintest of sounds surrounding him was a testament to how alive he was.

“Sky needs that.” He laced his fingers together to signal he was done making his point. “Something to keep him occupied that fills the silence.”

“Music?” Navi offered, pausing to take a sip of her coffee. “Do you know if he likes human music or if he still has some from Vos on him?”

JB sat back to look over his friend in utter awe. “Navi, I have been beating myself up over what to do for a week.”

She shrugged casually, a knowing smirk betraying her lack of humility in being so right so often. Mom powers, and all that jazz. “Don’t know why you wait to come to me.”

“Me neither.”

From there, the idea gained a mind of its own. From suggesting a few artists to Skyfire, to watching him become obsessed with folk music and Scandinavian instrumentals, then to noticing the intense way in which Sky held on to every note of a Dave Matthews song. Somewhere in the progression of the idea, Navi added on.

“A guitar?” Jazz hummed in thought. “I could use something to do. Sure.”

Navi shook her head. “We wanted to know if you’d had a human instrument made, not if you would make one.”

“No, no,” Jazz chided with a grin. “You know how stressed I’ve been lately. Me and Prowl need something smooth to do together. I could even get Blaster in on it. Make a band out of us.” His smile widened as he visually cast his gaze over the four of them. “I need this just as much as Jetfire. Believe me.”

They did. And it was more than worth it.

“You know,” Skyfire murmured, eyes and body lax and wistful as his gaze traveled the length of a him-sized acoustic guitar. The fine metal scrapped softly under the big guy’s tracing fingers but didn’t ding as metal on metal so often did. Some kind of insolation, JB thought Jazz had said. He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been actively listening. “I tried to learn how to play music once.”

“Yeah?”

Sky nodded his head and wings in slow, idle motions. “Never had the time.” His hand graced the wires, strumming the instrument to make a pleasant cascade of notes JB couldn’t name. The smile, though? That he could name: pure, childlike joy.

Jazz, Blaster, and Prowl had spent about one human month making Sky’s huge guitar. They then spent another two crafting a “normal sized” guitar, a whole set of wind instruments, and a drum set. All of which were left for public use in the rec room.

“The drums may have been a mistake,” Jazz said with a regretful grin.

JB had to agree. Even with his aids off, he could still feel the banging. “Does it at least sound nice?”

Jazz and the entire gang collectively shook their heads. “Nope,” Muzhir mouthed.

Poor things. JB laughed at his friends’ plight as he turned around in his seat to see if the chaos was ending any time soon. If Cliffjumper’s manic eyes were any indication, the answer was no.

At least Cliff wasn’t the only person indulging in the new activity. Obviously, whenever Jazz or Blaster had a moment to play and sing a few songs was a treat. But on the days Prowl would hunker down in the rec room’s new band corner with some kind of flute thing with two pipes, those were like sitting in a local coffee shop that refused to play anything close to modern. Not quite classical music, according to Navi, the songs Prowl would idly play to himself sounded like going on a fantastical journey through the woods. Earthy, light, not quite grounded in reality but perfectly suspended in whimsy.

“It’s Praxian,” Skyfire told him after he’d spent far too long trying to Google what Prowl was playing. “It’s…the instrument’s a lot like a Vosian, uh…” After a moment of fumbling, Sky gave up and resorted to his native tongue. “What had you called it?”

“A flute.”

“Aye, I think it’s similar. Vos’s has three resonators, not just the two.”

“Oh,” JB said as if any of that made sense to him. “Is that what you wanted to learn how to play?”

“Ah, no, I’ve not the hands for it.” Sky shifted his guitar on his lap so he could wiggle both hands’ fingers at him.

“You mean you don’t have a third arm?”

“Shush you,” Sky chuckled. “Not the skill for it, I should say. I think Star had to learn it, though. I ought to get one made just to force a concert out him.”

“I cannot see that ending well.”

“In divorce, I’d suspect.”

“Maybe not if you convince him to join your solo act.”

“I’d get myself a very angry bird playing a very strained flute.” Skyfire leaned back and lulled his eyes as he laughed. Once he rolled forward again, he added, “But he can sing, you know.”

“No I did not know.” JB scooched forward, fumbling over Sky’s bed sheets in his attempt. “Is he any good?”

“As a bird.”

“Have you heard some birds screech?”

“No, and I imagine you haven’t either, now.” The guitar was adjusted again, this time in preparation to be played. He waited until JB finished laughing before offering, “Want to hear what I’ve been working towards?”

“You’re planning on performing a concert?”

“To one, yes.” Eyes and wings downcast, the latter fluttering as they always did when Sky was thinking of Starscream. “A little bird who needs a reprieve.”

JB signed as he said, “Go on.”

For the past seven months, JB hadn’t heard more than a few practicing notes strung together from Sky. His friend preferred his privacy, and now it was obvious why.

Strong strums started them out. Insistent and longing with a hint of wishful thinking. Over and over the pattern went, swaying in time with whatever beats Skyfire was so visibly focused on. Eventually, they crescendoded, drawing out and stringing along nonverbal pleas.

Not that this was very apparent in the sounds themselves. Rather, it was the way Sky played them that gave JB context. Wings swayed in time with the repeated pattern, flowing through a kind of flight that seemed to take Sky somewhere peaceful. Sky’s mouth hung agape save the few flickers of words being mouthed along. The flyer’s whole body held steady against the guitar, but the shoulders and legs still moved. Like the wings, as if in flight. And those eyes, they were dull with focus and alight with a love JB rarely got to see. They slowly began closing to a half-lidded state as the song played on and the musician was lost in its intimate comfort.

“I need to keep at it,” Sky muttered after a moment of silence announced the song’s completion.

“At what?” JB shook his head, still lost in awe. “That sounded great, I thought.”

Sky gave him a knowing smirk. There was a joke there, they both knew it, but the mech declined to use it. “Hence why I chose a Dave Matthews song. I could play utter nonsense, I think, and it’d still sound right.”

“When do you think you’ll be ready to play for you-know-who?”

A few seconds of thought were given to the guitar, as if the instrument knew something Sky didn’t. “Give me time. A few more months, at least. I want his experience to be perfect. No thought on his end necessary, he can just sit there and feel bliss. The gods know my lover needs peace.”

The same rule did not, however, apply to the other Autobots. So, when Jazz asked via JB how guitar practice was going, the brief conversation turned into an impromptu concert in the rec room.

Skyfire sat on the ground in the band corner surrounded by curious Autobots seeking even a sliver of new information from the outsider. It hadn’t occurred to him until right then when Tegan pointed it out that most of the ‘Bots on base had never heard Sky speak let alone sing. Of course, they were curious.

The song was another from Dave Matthew’s. One of the instrumentals Sky had been studying over the year. Jazz and Blaster, especially, seemed ecstatic by the musical skill, but JB found himself frowning mid-way through. Wings held as steady as the body. Eyes normal and internally viewed. Mouth closed in a slight frown. This wasn’t the intimate passion of a musician but the plain need of an immigrant to properly fit in.

JB never said as much to anyone. Muzhir seemed to catch on all on his own as the concert went on. Nazi no doubt was aware of their friend’s disconnect long before the concert started. And Tegan was paying too much attention to everything and everyone not to notice.

One good thing came from that day, though.

Skyfire’s guitar had drawn Tracks away from the video games he, Jackie, and Redford had been playing all morning. Clear intrigue in the music had Sky quietly showing the kid how to play. A need to be friendly had Jazz shoving the extra guitar in Track’s arms.

With Tracks came the twins. Sunstreaker did his usual standing and staring. Sideswipe, though? That kid immediately jumped on the drums.

The whole Earth, JB swore, held its breath. God forbid Sides of all people took a liking to drums and started a banging war with Cliff. But the beat tapped out was simple. Pleasant, even. A (successful) attempt to play along with the tune Sky was teaching Tracks.

“New rule!” Jazz called out after the five-hour jam session finally ended. “Cliff ain’t allowed on the drums anymore. We got Sides for that.”

Beside him, Muzhir hissed a happy “yes” through a tight smile.

Was it any wonder a legit band formed?

At the end of each Cybertronian week, a concert was put on by Sides on drums, Tracks on the guitar, and Bluestreak on vocals. The first few were terrible. No sugar coating that. But after a few years, the covers started sounding more authentic. Less like the trio were trying to perfectly match the original performer, more like they were crafting something of their own.

That was all well and good, but JB was waiting to hear about one concert for a certain angry birdy.

  They were doodling on Sky’s guitar went it was finally brought up. “I think I’ll play him ‘Here on Out’.”

JB nodded, focusing on finishing his drawing. Two hand-drawn hands, side-by-side, sat above his current work signing out his name. He was almost done with the “fire” part of Sky’s. “The ‘Broken Things’ one is really cute thought. Or ‘You and Me’.”

“They’re both too long.”

“You’ve got this, though.”

“Not perfectly, I don’t.” Sky sat back, hand hovering over his etchings of their names in Vosian. Gaze distracted, he added, “We need to add Star here somewhere.”

Humoring the change of topics was a better use of their time than trying and failing to reassure his friend of his skill. So, he looked about the guitar’s surface for a way to add in Starscream. “I could put his below yours and draw a heart around it.”

Sky scrunched up his face. “Ah, sure, draw a creepy human organ on my guitar.”

“No, a cute heart. Like the emoji.” JB dropped his stencil to put his hands together in a heart shape. “The red one you put on your send offs.”

“Oh, I thought that was a symbol of greeting and parting ways.”

“What? No, it’s a sign of love.”

“Well, why’s it after called a heart, then, if it looks nothing like one?”

“I don’t know, that’s just what it’s called.”

Sky grumbled a playful curse in his native tongue. “Aye, draw the not-heart around our names if you think it’s cute. I think I’ll write Star’s name next to mine over here.”

They stayed in a comfortable limbo as they finished their works. JB popped up first to stand on the guitar’s surface and check the heart he’s etched was even enough. Satisfied, he looked over to Sky’s with every intention of trying to convince him to play a more challenging song. Only to sputter out a laugh.

“You’re one to talk!” JB motioned to the doodles encircling Skyfire’s and Starscream’s Vosian names. “Are those spark crystals?”

“They’re glyphs!” Sky smiled as he chastised, “You draw them on your lover’s spark chamber when you bond with them. You carve into the life of the one you love how much you adore them and how connected you hope to be to them.” After a few seconds of searching for a decent explanation of just what the glyphs looked like, he yielded. “They do kind of look like crystals, actually.”

JB chuckled to himself. “I knew you guys were as freaky as us.”

“Don’t go after telling Star that.” Sky made a few more tweaks to his etchings before finally setting his stencil down. “That is, if you’d like to do a favor for me.”

“Depends. I’m not helping you clean out your thrusters again.”

“Gods, no. I mean for you to film my bird’s concert.” Sky smiled like he’d just finished playing the guitar. “I’d like to have this some other time.”

 Of course, he agreed.

They flew out for the usual rendezvous point two days later. The sky was blurring through a rainbow of colors as the sun started setting. From the deep reds and oranges of the horizon came the roaring blot of a fighter plane. For all that Starscream was a screeching demon in the air, he landed without so much as a divot in the dirt.

All matters of war were set aside. Lovers greeted one another in a crash of preening and flittering wings. The guitar was inspected by a seeker far too small to properly play it. Little etchings in the instrument’s had Starscream snickering in his own smuggishly sweet way that made JB glad he’d already hit record on his phone camera.

Then Sky sat down on a rock, and Starscream sat on the ground across from him. There was a glance spared for JB by the flitting seeker. Little more than a fleeting acknowledgement that the recorder was recording.

A string of notes hummed. Pleasant, though not what JB focused on. What did the sound of music matter when the person making it conveyed so much more? Lulled blue eyes and a mouth moving along the counting of cords painted a picture of a man in love. With the song, the strum of the guitar, and above all, the person it was all for.

Sky swayed in preparation for the pending lyrics. With a nod in tune with the guitar’s carefully played pattern, he sang in a voice that so perfectly matched the singer. Strong in breath, light in tone, and rasped with divinity.

“Out of the corner of my eye, I caught you walk by,” Sky started, smiling slightly at the apparent good start. “I chase you down. Is it okay if I call you mine? From here on out? As if I could ever stop.”

JB couldn’t help but chuckle quietly at Starscream’s wings bobbing up and down as if to nod.

“You are light as a butterfly,” Sky continued, looking up to smirk at Starscream as he sang. “As heavy as rock. Bottom and the top. Is it okay if I call you mine? From here on out, as if I could ever stop.”

The music picked up then drew out to slow down in time with the singer. “And now I’m opened up. I am strong and wild, like the storm and the stars in my blood.” Another look was given to Starscream, this one far more intense though no less teasing. “And it’s all because of you. You, my love. Is it okay if I call you mine from here on out? As if I could ever stop.

“When you laugh, it’s like a light that fills me up. Oh, you, my love.” The next verse started with no beat of rest between the last, but Sky still found a moment to fix his gaze more seriously into Starscream’s attention. “And when I fell into your eyes, I could not get out. And I could not get enough.

“Is it okay if I call you mine from here on out, as if I could ever stop?”

The second or so of instrumental was used wisely, it seemed, as Sky returned to looking down at the guitar during the shift in tone. The simple pattern he’d returned to was replaced with that slower draw, somehow raised without upping the volume.

“When I’m all used up—old and breaking apart—like the storm and the stars in my blood. Oh, it’s all because of you. You are my love. Is it okay if I call you mine? From here on out, as if I could ever stop.”

In the brief pause in lyrics, the music hushed. Not stopping, just holding its breath for the next set of lyrics. Because this was where Sky’s voice failed him most. High notes. He could technically do it, sure, but JB had watched the guy practice over and over again for months without much progress. He just couldn’t lift his voice quite like Dave Matthews.

So of course, JB braced himself for the hardest part of the song. And of course, he was completely unprepared for the chorus of two voices. One staying where it had been, the other rising to meet the challenge the former couldn’t manage.

“And I want you to know,” the pair sang, holding onto the last vowel sound for a sweet moment of resonance. “I still need you so.” Again, they held the last sound for several long seconds.

Long enough for JB to look over at the other singer. Starscream was still sitting there, eyes glued to Sky. But now his mouth hung open to allow a higher note to mingle with Sky’s deeper rasp. A smooth thing not nearly as ear-scaring as the seeker’s usual speaking voice.

“I want you to know… I still need you so…”

Only once the verse was coming to a close did Sky look up to meet Star’s fixation. He smiled. Pure and simple.

“Is it okay if I call you mine?” he asked, receiving a wing flutter from a now-silent Starscream. “From here on out? As if I could ever stop.” The instrumental continued for a few seconds more. All the while, Sky kept his sight lifted.

When it finally did end and the guitar was set down across Sky’s lap, Starscream just laughed. “Was that it?”

Sky laughed right back. “Greedy, love, you expect to get more out of me than that masterpiece?”

“Greedy?” Starscream flapped his wings and gestured to himself in mocked offense. “Are you saying it’s greedy to want what you so rightly deserve?”

“Ah, sure, you know yourself.” Still, the chuckle they shared was light. “No, love, I have plenty more I’m after practicing.”

“Let’s hear them, then.”

“Nothing else is ready yet.” Skyfire tsked, favoring his husband with a teasing grin and playful canting of his wings and shoulders. “Does my greedy lover want the best from me or not?”

“Impatience wins over my greed.” Starscream waved for Sky to move along. Which might have looked demeaning were it not for the crisscross-applesauce position he’d taken. “I demand to hear whatever broken melodies my queen has to play for me.”

Skyfire threw his head back, for joy if not in humor at the ridiculousness of their terrible flirting. “Aye, my king. Broken things it is, then.”

The bolder sound of Dave Matthews’ “Broken Things” (a perfect dad joke JB couldn’t help snickering at) ricocheted off the guitar. Sky had to move his whole upper body to make it, and the vibrance of the music was well worth the clear effort it was taking to make. Concentration took over. Without Sky’s body language offering context, JB had to focus extra hard on the lyrics being sung.

“Sometimes the road is crystal, and sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. Tell me what it is you think you’re missing, and I will see what I can find.” Sky sucked in air through his vents as if to brace himself through the bit of instrumental between verses. “You want to be so sure of, of every step you take. Well, you can’t always know what’s coming. You can’t always know the twist of fate.

“Well, all my love—my heart—is, is set on you. Set on you.” Another draw in, Sky’s focus internal. “All my love, my heart, is set on you. Set on you.”

That last sound was supposed to be held if JB remembered correctly. But Sky left it be to instead concentrate on the more complex acoustics the song demanded. Once the section between the chorus and pending verse was done, he relaxed into a proud smile that turned cheeky as he began singing again.

“Stars shine down from the black, and we’re picking through this broken glass. Well, how could we know that our lives would be so, so full of beautifully broken things?” There was little to no time for a breath. Sky still took a chance to glance at an obediently listening Starscream trapped in utter awe by him.

Perhaps that one look was enough to break his focus, or maybe it was the nerves mixed with the higher difficulty. Regardless, a few missed notes had Skyfire murmuring a curse as he stopped playing.

“Why’d you quit?” Starscream rose to stand on his knees. Not to touch, just seemingly to be within Sky’s reach.

“Messed up, hold on.” Sky’s eyes closed and head nodded along to notes only he could hear.

All the while, JB held the phone steady in case the couple started acting even cuter. With his luck, they’d stop once they remembered he was still there to film.

“Where in the song are you?” Star prompted.

Sky lulled his helm side to side as he considered. “All my love, my heart, is set on you, set on you. It’s not the lyrics I skipped over.”

Starscream bristled. “Well, don’t just sit there. Talk it out.”

A normal person would have taken offense. JB was pretty sure Skyfire had lost his normalcy a long time ago. Because where others saw another reason to dislike the seeker, his friend saw an opportunity for connection.

The two talked. What about, JB didn’t understand. Music refused to be more than pretty sounding poetry on a beat even when he was wearing hearing aids. It was like trying to read hieroglyphics by feel alone, he’d once explained to Navi. There were meanings behind things he wasn’t able to see and shapes he couldn’t discern just from tracing the pictures with his hands. He knew musical theory stuff was there, but it was out of his reach. Different pitches were too indistinguishable, notes undefined, and tones reduced to bare simplicity.

Whether Starscream understood it all better than him or not, talking seemed to put Skyfire back on track. After muddling through the chorus until he picked back up his steam, the song continued.

“War is the most vulgar madness, and winters can be so cruel. You can’t always change the way things are like I, I can’t change the way I think of you. But…all my love—my heart—is set on you. Set on you. All,” Sky sang, finally letting the word drag out as long as it deserved, “my love, my heart, is set on you. Set on you.”

The crescendo started without much reprieve. “All my love…” Sky vented in as his voice kept going. “My love, oh my love,” he belted. “All my love, my heart, is set on you. Set on you.” With the lyrics finished, there was only the ending instrumental to focus on.

It played with the organized chaos of a proper Dave Matthews cover. One day, Sky might learn how to really use that time to freestyle a guitar riff (solo? Whatever it was called), but for now, he did his best to stick with the original. JB recorded it all, including the sweet way Starscream placed his hands on Skyfire’s knees once the song ended.

“See? Was that so bad?” The seeker may have been teasing, but JB was used to reading people off more than their sounds. Starscream was relaxed as he leaned into Sky’s knees. Wings fluttered low and easy. Eyes shone a kind of crimson that made JB understand why his friend was so enamored with the seeker. If he was ever looked at like that…he was sure he’d never need to breathe another day of his life.

So, how Skyfire always managed to push through the weight of that gaze to make a snarky remark, JB had no clue. But his friend grinned and then did it again. “Awful. Truly torture, my petty king.”

“Petty?” Starscream screeched. “Guess I’m not helping you next time.”

“I’d hardly call you giving me gusts ‘help’, you know.”

“What about me after singing?” Starscream narrowed his eyes and grinned like a maniac. Or rather, like a normal Starscream. “No more of that from this ‘petty king’.”

Skyfire laughed something boisterous before leaning down to kiss his husband’s forehead. “A very petty king, indeed. My petty king.”

Starscream’s plating did a weird puffy thing. Like a cat or bird fluffing themselves up, JB idly thought. Still filming.

“You enjoy calling me ‘king’, don’t you?” Starscream taunted with a not-at-all-subtle sensual bravado to his voice.

“Only because I find it amusing.” The two stayed locked for a steady moment. Then Skyfire broke into giggles. “Ah, sorry. It really is funny you’re Winglord, now.”

“How?” The word was screeched, of course, but Skyfire’s laughter was too contagious to sustain its ire.

“I just keep thinking,” Sky started, setting his guitar down beside the rock he sat on, “of our flat in Iacon. This mighty king once fought a property manager over that scrapheap of a chiller we had in there.”

Starscream rocked back in disgust. “Disciple capitalist deserved whatever I did to them.”

“Gave them night terrors, that’s what. And still lost.”

“Well, they should have fixed the chiller the first time we asked after it.” Starscream leaned forward again, this time leaning crossed arms along Sky’s knees. “I’ll never forget how upset you were when all those expensive packets you’d bought thawed out and had to be tossed.” He shook his head, smirking as he added, “Strange, the things you remember. You’d spent, what, three or four terms saving up for those?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I just remember losing them.”

“Well, I remember you patiently bidding your time to buy all this sweetener. I remember thinking I ought to help you else you never reach your goal. But you did without me.”

“No, I doubt that.” Skyfire slid down the rock until he, too, was kneeling flush against Starscream’s front. “I’m sure you taunted me.”

“How helpful could that have been?”

“More than you know.”

“Less than you think.”

“Oh, love, I think you listen to the wrong people.” Skyfire encircled his arms around the smaller flyer’s body until he was able to lift Starscream a little higher, so their eyes were level. “Do you know the value of your words, my petty king?”

“No,” Starscream said curtly, grin rising as his arms did to wrap around Sky’s neck. “Tell me.”

“So much more than you know. Priceless even.”

“Ah, well, love, do you know your own worth?” That lithe accent JB usually only heard from Skyfire dripped out of every word Starscream spoke. Not a mockery, no, but an unconscious slip.

“Priceless?”

“No, there’s a price on you.” Their foreheads crept closer. “It’s just more than most are willing to pay.”

“Should I be fortunate for your fortune, then?”

“Aye, in my greed more than my wealth. I want you.”

Sky let their faces brush before rasping, “I’ll be your queen, then.” He grabbed the back of Starscream’s head. “Because you are my king.”

The pair fell into a kiss. At the same moment, JB decided his shoes were a very interesting view. Look at those laces. Horribly tied. He’d expect better hand dexterity from signing would have gotten him at least decent knot tying skills. But no.

At some point in his inner distraction, he remembered he was still recording and looked up to check the phone was still pointed in the couple’s direction. Sure, he didn't want to get involved in a personal moment, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t want to look back on it later. The screen’s display offered him a smaller view of the make out session. Hence how he noticed the moment Starscream pulled away like he was being bitten.

Not for the first time, JB stayed silent as Skyfire and Starscream danced around a sensitive topic. The specifics weren’t his to know. The general idea, though, was public knowledge. Starscream was widely known as Megatron’s punching bag for a reason. JB wasn’t exactly surprised to learn rumors of abuse were rooted in truth.

Neither flyer lingered. That was part of a Vosian saying, according to Skyfire. Don’t linger in dead wind, or the alternative, don’t linger in harsh winds. They might make you stronger, sure, but it’s often unwise to risk yourself needlessly. Thus, they both pulled back.

“Sing for me,” Starscream muttered. “Nothing sad. Or fast.”

“Need to feel easy, love?”

JB didn’t hear Starscream’s response. But by the time he properly looked up at them, the guitar was in Sky’s hands again and being lightly strummed.

How long they stayed there listening to Skyfire playing soft music, singing human songs he’d practiced and Vosian songs he remembered, JB had no clue. His phone died at some point. He didn't bother fussing over getting it charged. How could he? He’d never seen Starscream look so at peace.

No need to further break an already broken thing.

Chapter Text

Tegan wasn’t quite sure what they expected when Red and Inferno left them in the monitor room alone for the first time. A catastrophic event? Maybe a completely random full-system shutdown of the entire base? Or an infiltration? Something horrible, they were sure of it.

Hour one was spent in deep focus. With Red and ‘Ferno getting exclusive quality time with Redford, they didn’t need to worry over their son’s wellbeing. Just the security system.

Hour four was about when they realized this might be the most boring job they ever volunteered for. Sure, taking on the responsibility meant their ‘Bots could spend a full day with ‘Ford. But as hour seven rolled around, they were beginning to second guess their decision.

“What to do…” Tegan tapped at the desk, thinking out loud, “Maybe touch random things?” They laughed to themself. “Sure, Tegan, mess with all of Red’s things.” They reached over to fiddle with one of the many knobs on the control panel embedded in the desk. “She’d love that.” The knob turned under their touch, releasing a bit of static from the open comm line speaker.

“Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle,” they sang like they were talking to ‘Ford. The four-year-old loved a classic silly voice. Almost naturally, they kept messing with the knob, changing the comm frequency. “Wonder what the widdle Decepties are saying.” They hovered on a known ‘Con channel for a few seconds, then started fluctuating back and forth over it with minute changes in the frequency. “Wonder, wonder, wonder.”

At some point, reality hit them. Hard. Like Optimus Prime had barrel rolled into them. “Shit, I’ve gone mad.”

Not a second later, the speaker exploded with a banging, “Call me maybe!” that knocked Tegan right over.

“The hell?” they yelled back at the now-quiet speaker. Just in case, they got up from their fallen position on the desk to walk over and give the speaker a kick.

Nothing.

“Inferno, if that’s you, I didn’t find the joke all that funny.”

Nothing, again.

“Sides? If you’re using a ‘Con channel, get off it.”

Still nothing.

Odd. Someone aiming to prank them (or Red Alert) would have mic-ed the room to keep tabs on them. So, perhaps this wasn’t a prank. A quick check of the comm channel proved it wasn’t one of theirs. It wasn’t even a ‘Con’s, in fact. This was a frequency a few values lower than the known channel they’d been fiddling with.

They waited, watching, for the speaker to erupt again for what had to be ten full minutes. It stayed as silent as ever.

“Alright,” they muttered, “did the other end not pick up?” Asking the speaker was pointless, but after four years of raising a child, narrating everything they did was just an automatic reflex. “Are you sending digital messages? Is that what you’re doing?”

In all honesty, it was a decent next step in their impromptu investigation. The ‘Bots were able to relay a great deal of information in a wide variety of formats over internal comms. All they needed to do to view it was open up a different program on the terminal, input their login info, wait fifty years for the stupid thing to load, and…

There. On the same frequency, a sort of texting conversation was happening between two ends. The first located somewhere on Earth, the other somewhere far farther. Cybertron, Tegan assumed. Privacy was not a word their security team knew, so Tegan didn’t think twice about snooping.

Translations to English came in as the texts were registered.

::What do you require?:: Person A (for away, as in, the one away from Earth) asked first, likely in response to the initial audio clip.

::I’m crying.:: Person B (for…being the one on Earth) answered.

::Elaborate.::

::I watched Bluey, and now I am crying.::

::I still require further elaboration.::

This next bit took several long seconds to load. Once it finally did, Tegan could understand why their computer was struggling. It was a video file titled “Bluey – Seasons One and Two – Must Watch – Warning: happy sad”.

::That is not an elaboration.::

::It is if you watch it. You have time.::

A few minutes passed. Tegan waited patiently for Person A to respond. They did not for a full fourteen minutes. Which was, on a likely related note, the length of two episodes. They would know. Bluey was a household name among the gang alongside the greats of old, like Arthur.

::Ah.:: Person A finally replied. ::I cannot give you another child at the moment. Remind me when we reunite.::

:: :( ::

::Do not.:: After a few seconds, Person A added, ::Illogical.::

::Bingo is so small.::

::An accurate statement when comparing her size to the other individuals around her.::

::I’m crying. I need you to watch all two seasons.::

::I will after completing the fast storytelling album you sent yesterday.::

It took Person B a few minutes to decipher what that meant. ::Taylor Swift? XD::

::The audio file labeled ‘Swift, Folklore’, yes. What does ‘XD’ mean?::

::Affirmative. Folklore: wonderful music. Please listen to ‘seven’. The XD means happiness. Looks like a sideways face dying laughing. See? XD or :D Cute human thing [?Dghrdyun?] used in his notes.::

Tegan audibly snorted before registering that last sentence. Whatever word the translator was trying to decipher, they didn’t know. Which was, admittedly, a fault on Autobot knowledge. So much of the Decepticons’ native languages either weren’t written down or never learned by any ‘Bot well enough to translate. Take Skyfire. Even with a few flyers in their ranks helping their translations all those years ago, they still got the guy’s name wrong.

They took a breath and let the annoyance pass over. Nothing about that slack could be done right now, and there was still a conversation to be exploited.

Person A had replied. ::Clarify. The seventh song listed in the audio file, or the clip labeled ‘seven’? Additionally, the XD does not look like your face. . . . . Illogical.::

::Labeled ‘seven’. Correction: HD::

::Confirmed. Still inaccurate representation of your features when experiencing happy emotes.::

:: (▀‿▀) ::

::No.::

:: (づ ▀ ³▀)づ    too far    \(0)/::

::I do not understand.::

:: (づ ￣ ³￣)づ \(-)/ :: After being ignored for a few minutes, Person B added, ::I kiss you.::

::Inaccurate.:: The message was accompanied by proof, it seemed. An image file, containing one single picture, depicting one very recognizable Decepticon being headbutted by someone Tegan didn’t readily remember from the ‘Con roster. Someone who appeared to have only one eye.

Correction. Their whole head was an eyeball. Upon closer inspection, this wasn’t even a picture colored black and white. It was a whole ass drawing.

::I needed that (◕♡◕) :: Person B—no, Soundwave—responded. ::Alexa, play ‘All I Want’ by U2.::

Oh. Oh. Memories from several years ago washed over them. They were watching hours of archived footage of two cassetticons playing videos, pranking fellow Decepticons, and following their dad around for kicks and giggles. Muzhir had been there, too, wondering how it was two little menaces could be so wholesome and worrying over two bodies left behind in a destroyed outpost.

But what Tegan recalled so vividly right now were the drawings. All those details in each sketch, the attention given to each child, the way Rumble and Frenzy had cherished them…

“Shocks,” they murmured. That’s what the twins had called him. Their other dad, the one left behind on Cybertron having never been given the chance to meet the youngest of the kids. “Oh, you poor thing.”

No wonder they’d never seen or heard of this “Shocks” before. Soundwave was chatting with him on an unverified channel with pure dumb luck as his primary form of security. Sure, Red’s hacks were creative, but Tegan doubted they were enough to crack anything Soundwave crafted. Add in the rather pathetic circumstances this Shocks person was in, a tragic picture of a high-ranking officer falling for a low-rank nobody was so clearly painted. Someone so, so very memorable loving someone no one bothered mentioning.

They looked back up at the screen in time to catch up with the two’s conversation.

::Who is Alexa?::

::A human saying. It translates to a vague order for someone to begin playing the designated song.::

::Understood. Give me twenty seconds.::

:: (▀‿▀) I have the song ready.::

::Song obtained.::

:: (^-^) /\ \(0)/ Giving your hand a squeeze.::

:: (**)|/\></\|(*) Is this correct? If there is a specific protocol, provide one.::

::Perfect. Message: received.::

The comm line went quiet for a few minutes. Long enough for Tegan to consider changing channels and scrubbing whatever data had been stored. There wasn’t anything here of use to them, and Soundwave’s privacy rights (limited though they were) didn’t just go away all because he was on the other side of their war.

After those few minutes passed, though, they were glad they stayed on.

::I miss you.::

::I miss you, as well.:: A second passed. ::Logically.::

:: XD Once the satellite is repaired, we can video call. ET: twenty hours. [?Arrneti ch’ghjik?] wants to see you. He has a science question.::

::He has communicated the need. I will speak with him following my planned discussion with [?Buzy tesav?] as the latter expressed a desire to talk through his latest weapon design first.::

::Affirmative. They all need alone time with you.::

::They have my time at your earliest convenience.::

Tegan took a shaky breath in. That pain, they knew all too well. The ache of being away from ‘Ford for any length of time stole their heartbeat. They didn’t breathe so long as ‘Ford was out of their sight. To imagine the toll such prolonged distance was putting on Shocks was to risk their own sanity. Add on the loss…losses.

::Squeeze???::

::A moment.:: A few seconds passed. :: ‘(^-^) /\ \(0)/ Giving your hand a squeeze.’::

::I squeeze!! (∿°○°)∿ ::

::Do you have additional requirements?::

::Listen to music. Watch videos. Stay where you are. We will come to you as soon as we are able.::

::Tasks added to list. I do not doubt your competency.::

The comm line was quiet for a moment, then Soundwave sent an audio clip.

“Love you. Stay safe,” the deep, staticked voice said in too soothing a tone to be the infamous Decepticon’s. Sharp clicks and whirls of Standard didn’t diminish the weight of the words, such that Tegan barely needed to look at the closed captions to guess what was said.

Shocks replied soon after with a clip of his own in an equally intimating baritone sweetened by context. “Stay alive.”

There, the comm line was left to lay quiet.

Tegan wasn’t sure what they’d expected, but witnessing a sweet exchange between ‘Con lovers was nowhere near their imaginings. What to do with this information was a conundrum in and of itself. Shocks may have been a nobody, but Soundwave was decidedly not. But then again, everyone deserved some level of privacy. Sure, Tegan had snooped. That didn’t mean the rest of the world needed to.

It was a text from Inferno that made their decision for them. A picture of ‘Ford came first, one of him with Red’s holoform. The little boy was grabbing at her face and smiling like he was experiencing joy for the first time again. Beneath grabby hands, Red was beaming just as brightly.

::Still good!:: the text read. ::Bought ‘Ford a new toy car.:: Another picture shortly followed of Inferno’s holoform hand holding a small red Lamborghini with white details. ::We had to! He said it looked like Grannie X’D lol ass off::

The record of Soundwave’s conversation was promptly scrubbed.

Chapter Text

Melody wandered out of the rec room in a bit of a funk. Losing to Jackie and Tracks did that to a person. Saleem was a humble winner, especially when it came to video games Mel rarely played, but her brother and Tracks could be just plain rude. Tongues out, crude signs, and “gamer talk” they learned from playing way too much Fortnite.

Where she planned on going, she had no clue. She was two years shy of enlisting, so she wasn’t technically allowed to go beyond the designated human spaces. That never stopped her from trying to find her mom or Prowl in other “forbidden” areas of the base.

The latter she figured would be in his office on a Wednesday afternoon. Which was on the east side of the base, a thirty-minute walk from the rec room. Who knows? She might find something better to do along the way.

It took about ten minutes for “better” to find her.

Usually, she walked the perimeter of the hanger/command center/entrance place to avoid being stepped on. But the only mechs around were Optimus, Bluestreak, the twins, and some of the science crew. What they were waiting around for, she didn’t know. She bet it was more interesting than playing battleship with Prowl.

“Hey!” she greeted, running across the hanger to the scaffolding Blue was leaning on.

“Melody,” Optimus chastised in his “I’m trying too hard to be a dad” voice. “This area is off limits without explicit permission from a commanding officer.”

She slowed to stop at his big feet and smiled up at him sweetly. “Will you give me permission?”

The sucker yielded faster than normal. He must be catching on. “Stay off the floor,” was the only caveat Optimus gave her as he crouched down to gently pick her up and set her down atop the scaffolding. To Blue and the twins, he gave pointed stares. “Watch her.”

Sunstreaker nodded like a soldier, but Blue and Sideswipe laughed. “Why?” Sides asked, motioning up at the sixteen-year-old. “She’s, like, the same age as Tracks, now.”

Optimus never appreciated such reminders. Hence why he didn't even acknowledge the remark, just turned around and walked over to the scientists.

Which reminded her. “What’s up?”

“They need Chip for something,” Blue explained. “Prime and my parents want a debrief from Bee, too, so we’re in charge of guardianship once he gets on base.”

There was a name she hadn’t heard in a while. A few months, at least. Mel tried not to smile too eagerly about the prospect of the old man visiting. “Will they stay long?”

“Think for the day, yeah.” Blue looked to the twins for confirmation, both of whom quickly nodded. “It’ll be nice to have Bee around. I haven’t seen him since…when did John Mulaney cheat on his wife?”

“Who?”

The mechs ignored her completely. “2021, I think,” Sunny answered.

“Oh, right!” Blue’s wings fluttered like a happy bird. “Sometime before that, we went to Chip’s place to visit because he was quarantined or whatever, and we’re clean, and Bee mentioned Chip needed company, so we went over for a couple days or something like that. I remember it had to be before the whole cheating thing because I was telling Bee all about John Mulaney going to rehab and how sad and happy I was that he was. ‘Cause I want him to get better, you know? And Chip hadn’t really heard of him before, so I showed him that show on Netflix he did—the one with the ‘Street smarts!’ bit—and we were cackling because, you know, my dad, or mom…Prowl was a cop once, and Chip and I were asking him all kinds of random questions. Like, did he ever wear a big hat or tell kids how to beat up adults or hope kids got almost kidnapped but not quite kidnapped.” Blue finally took a breath. “Prowl wasn’t amused, but I think Chip had a blast.”

“Can’t imagine that,” Sides droned. He suddenly stepped closer and jerked his chin at the other mechs standing across the hangar.

Mel bounced as she looked that way. Only to deflate when there was no yellow VW driving up. “What?”

Sides giggled a little too deviously. “For Blue, not you.”

“Oh, shut it.” Blue still snuck a peak of whatever Sides had indicated. “You’re so mean.”

“’So mean’,” Sides mocked. “But I’m right.”

Mel was about to blow one of their fuses. “Tell me what we’re looking at, doofus.”

Blue answered before Sides could in a voice barely above a whisper. “Look at Perceptor.”

She did. The mech was standing on the edge of the science crew, stretching an arm as he seemed to be attentively listening to whatever Brainstorm was saying. It was only then Mel noticed the man sitting on ‘Fire’s shoulder. She quickly crouched down so her body was at least a little shielded by the scaffolding bars just in case Uncle JB hadn’t heard her arrival. With any luck, he’d turned his hearing aids off. “I still don’t get it.”

Sides may have laughed, but neither Sunny or Blue dropped their serious expressions. “It’s the arm thing,” Blue clarified then motioned for Sunny to perform it. He did exactly what Perceptor had done, stretching out one arm by crossing it over his chest and pulling it taunt with the opposite arm. Blue shook his head. “You can’t do it.”

“I know.” Sunstreaker dropped his arms to his sides as he gazed over at the science crew.

Blue joined in the obvious staring. “He’s just so…”

“Yeah.”

“He has no right to be that, uh…shot, what’s the human word?”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Blue repeated, nodding his head and adding a sing-song cadence to the word. “No right to be that fine.”

Oh. Oh. Mel worked her mouth around her own awkwardness before finding her words. “You think Perceptor’s hot?”

“He thinks guns are hot,” Sides chimed in.

“I do not!” Blue about slapped Sideswipe’s shoulders but stopped when raising his arms exposed the condensation built up around his side vents. He quickly re-covered them. “I told you. I think he’s fine.”

Sunstreaker nodded sagely. “It’s the arms.”

“And thighs when he does the thing,” Blue added. “It’s absurd!”

“And unfair. He can’t even see how hot he is.”

Blue made an undignified noise. Something between a laugh and an “oh God, that’s horrible” that had him clinging to Sunny’s arm. “You can’t say that!”

“It’s that,” Sunny threatened, “or I mention he’s a microscope.”

“Stop it!” Blue snorted, vents puffing.

“The ultimate kind of gun.” Sunny cocked his head like a tease. “Shoots light. Makes things big.”

Blue had to cover his mouth to hide how blue his face was flushing.

“Real big.”

“I can’t with you,” Blue gasped and turned his back to the sight of Perceptor just standing there.

“Helps he’s a sniper.” One of Sunstreaker’s hands lifted to trial up Blue’s chest, settling at about the middle of it where an Autobot brand sat proudly. “Doesn’t miss. Even without looking.”

Bluestreak took in a long draw of air so forcefully his doorwings shook.

For the life of her, Mel tried to look at Perceptor in the same way. To no avail. “I don’t get it,” she muttered. “He’s so boxy.”

“But you forget,” Sides chimed, “he’s a gun.”

“It’s not that!” Blue waved his hands as he thought up a better excuse. “Okay, it’s a little bit that. But I don’t have a gun-thing.”

“You do.”

“Et tu, Sunny?”

Said mech just shrugged. “Cock a gun for me.”

Blue looked like he already knew where this was going, but whether to comply with his fiancé’s request or to answer Mel’s question, he lifted his empty hands like he was cradling a large rifle. He gave the fictious gun a thorough pump.

“Oh!” Mel retreated into herself, unsure what to do with the very real response her body had to the mere insinuation. “Oh, I get it.” She looked back up at Perceptor in this new light. Boxy build or not, “You could pump that gun.”

Blue gave her a mildly horrified (if somewhat understanding) smile while Sides started laughing again.

“There’s a joke in there somewhere,” the latter insisted, “about not being able to ask your moms about this.”

Sunny shook his head. “That joke would only work with dads.”

“No, moms. It’s the moms who don’t have ‘em.”

“I don’t think that’s right.”

“I don’t think this conversation should continue,” Blue warned, flicking his wings rather insistently in a way Mel readily recognized.

Sure enough, Prowl and Jazz were driving up to the entrance of the hangar bay with a yellow VW Bug in formation behind them. Blue’s parents transformed in that elegant way that still had Mel mesmerized even after seeing it near every day of her life. Bee stayed in his altmode to park with his passenger side facing the three mechs standing beside her. There was a strategy to it, Mel thought she recalled from one of Prowl’s games. Something to do with keeping the most vulnerable in the center of a protective circle. Something more instinctual than breathing.

The single passenger door opened to reveal Bumblebee’s pink interior and an old man. He patted the rim of the door to signal he was clear to leave, prompting Bee to make a partial transformation. The rest of the side of the car folded out of the way while the door’s panels smoothed and rotated down to form a ramp. Once done, the man was able to move his wheelchair back and turn to roll down the ramp.

“Pleasant as always to see you, old friend,” Optimus greeted. The huge mech waited for Chip to move out of Bee’s way to kneel next to him. “How have you been?”

“Fine as always, much older friend.” Chip extended an arm about halfway, not fully straightening the limb, to fist bump Prime’s offered hand. “Glad I’m still considered the smartest of the science team!”

“Nonsense,” Perceptor interjected. He seemed to listen for Bumblebee’s tell-tale transformation noises to gauge where to look as he spoke to Chip. “Though your knowledge of Earth electronics rivals any of our available minds.”

Chip clapped as he laughed in that hardy way that made Mel feel ten years younger. “Brainiac hasn’t figured us out, yet?”

Brainstorm rustled at that. “No, I’m just not allowed to fiddle with human things. Prime’s afraid I’ll make a nuke.”

“A second nuke,” Optimus corrected.

“The first was a prototype and shouldn’t be counted.”

“I’m sure it was made in honor of Jack.” Chip glanced outside. It was the wrong entrance, Mel knew, but the thought of a cemetery and the plaque for a mech she only knew in stories was plainly seen in the quick gesture. “How about we get to me helping a bunch of robots who don’t know a motherboard from a CPU?” He didn't let them have a choice in the matter. Chip started turning his wheelchair around to head towards the labs.

Only, he was making to head to the north wing, not the west wing. Bumblebee stepped in front of him, carefully moving back as Chip’s grip on his wheels gradually halted him. “Labs are that way,” he said patiently, pointing in the right direction.

“Ah, how dare you move them!” Chip laughed and started turning to correct his course.

“They weren’t moved,” Bee explained. “But it has been a few years since you’ve been by the base. Everything starts to look the same if you’re away for too long.” Standing at about three Chip Chase’s tall, it looked easy for Bee to lean over and help righten the man’s course. He huffed out a forced laugh. “I have trouble finding my way around, sometimes. All the walls are the same color.”

“That ungodly orange,” Chip agreed. He tried his best to give his friend’s hand a pat but couldn’t quite twist enough to do so without Bee moving closer to his side. “I have it, Bee. I have it.”

“I know you do.” Bee let him go.

Mel watched with envy clogging her throat as Chip wheeled off passed the scaffolding she crouched on followed by the science crew. She didn’t miss the fond shaking of her uncle’s head when he did, in fact, spot her nor the funny smile ‘Fire gave her. She also didn’t miss the subtle grasping of Perceptor’s hand by Brainstorm before they began walking off after the others.

“That’s our cue.” Sides shook the scaffolding just enough to get her attention. Mel obediently moved closer to him and his offered hand. “See you later, Mel.”

Sunny gave her a gruff sound that meant he planned on (not) talking to her later. She gave him her own mocking grunt back, if only to make him chuckle.

To Blue, she smirked. “Enjoy the microscope.”

“Evil,” he snickered. “That’s what you are. You know what? I will enjoy the view.” When he nodded his decision’s finality, Sunny’s mouth stretched into a sly grin.

Mel stayed put where Sides had set her down until five seconds after the three mechs left her side, just as she’d been taught to do. Wait until the bigger creatures with less awareness for the floor she walked on moved away. Stay where they knew she was. Only after those five mandatory seconds passed did she finally make her way to Prowl.

Sure, he probably had work to do with Bee, but the spy was technically under Jazz’s command. At least, she was pretty sure he was. It was hard to tell what work belonged to who sometimes. Regardless, Prowl was her next target for entertainment, and she knew for sure he couldn’t deny her a moment of his time.

Hence why she was frozen to the floor by a kind of guilty ick she couldn’t name when she heard metal clanging against metal and looked up to see Bee crying.

Jazz had him. The smaller mech was clinging to Jazz’s front like it was a lifeline as his body seemed to release an explosion of coolant from his eyes. After a watery sucking in of air through his vents, Bee was sobbing, “He’s just…” The words dissolved.

“I know,” Jazz soothed in that deep baritone that could still sing Mel to sleep. “I’m sure he has a while longer. He looks great.”

“It’s getting harder for him to move.” Bee visibly gripped Jazz’s waist tighter. “And his memory is getting worse. He couldn’t remember your name this morning, Jazz.”

There was no good response to that. Not one Mel could think of. Even ignoring the state Bumblebee was in, thinking of Chip as anyone but the quirky man who fixed her phones and beat her auncle and uncles at arm wrestling was simply impossible. The man with never-ending war stories unable to recite every single one of his and Bee’s events couldn’t exist. Shouldn’t exist.

When in her freeze Prowl noticed her, she wasn’t aware until he said, “Watch your English,” to the two hugging mechs and hovering Prime. He made his way over to her with all the caution of her moms walking into her room after knocking. “Were you looking for me or your creators?”

Mel shook her head. “Ma’s visiting her aunt. I was hoping to find Mom or you.”

He stopped to kneel in front of her, blocking her view of the ‘Bots now speaking softly in Standard. “Chip Chase will be available for non-war related socials once he’s done helping us. I doubt it will take him longer than one round of Clue.”

She had to smile at his sly attempt to distract her. “Is Chip dying?”

“Everyone is dying at varying rates.” Prowl’s wings canted slightly, the only indication this was a failed attempt at humor. “Some faster than others. Granted, Chip is old.”

“You’re old.”

“Relatively, no. I have lived approximately 30% of my life. Chip has lived 75% of his, assuming he lives to 100 human years which is, evidently, unlikely.” Prowl spoke in a low voice so as not to be heard by the still-crying Bee. Even still, the statements blared in Mel’s mind. “This is simply how life is. Even if I could change that, I wouldn’t want to.”

How ridiculous. Mel scrunched up her face in disgust at the idea of Prowl not wanting to help a dying man. “Why?”

He favored her with the same gleaming eyes shone on her when she made a poor move in chess. “You’ll understand the value of a moment when you have lived long enough to realize how many you missed.”

Their first round of Clue didn’t take nearly as long as they thought what with Mel scoring a lucky combo of cards and peeks. Jazz and her mom joined them in time for a second but never had the chance to lose to her since Prime barged in mid-game.

Chip had finished sooner than expected, too. He was asking for them.

Mel took a breath when envy tried to spoil the moment. It hurt in ways she couldn’t begin to understand to see her little brother and Redford already badgering Chip with stupid questions. They didn’t ask them right. Jackie spoke too fast for Chip to hear. Redford kept stumbling into Chip’s wheelchair. It wasn’t their fault. Jackie wasn’t around old people nor old enough himself to get why Chip kept having to ask him what he was saying. Redford just stumbled a lot in general, never on purpose.

Still, it hurt to see. She should have gotten there first. She should have set the standard for how talking to Chip was supposed to go.

Her mom seemed to read her mind. Or, maybe she was just the same way. “Chip’s a grown man. He can handle it.” She gave Mel’s shoulder a shake. “You good?”

In spite of the lump in her throat, Mel nodded.

“Melony!” Chip clapped as she approached and greeted her offer for a hug with open arms that squeezed her rips too tight. A hard pat on her back ended the embrace. “How are you?”

“Melody,” she corrected, trying to sound as much like Bee as possible.

The man still looked distraught by the mistake. “I am so sorry. Melody, Melody. I knew that!” He shrugged it off just as quickly. “You’re in middle school, right?”

“High school, technically.” She motioned to her mom. “I’m still being home schooled. I’ll take my standardized tests in two years.”

“Wow! How you’ve grown!” Chip adjusted his glasses, looking passed her to her mom. “Navi, your children are still so wonderful.”

That was great and all but not what Mel wanted. She waited for the pleasantries to end so she could get her story. “Prowl and I were talking about a battle over these satellites in Texas the other day.”

Chip grinned so wide his cheeks pushed his glasses up. “I know the one. Want to know how I pulled a fast one on the Soundwave?”

“Yes, please!” Mel looked about for a place to sit so she wasn’t towering over the man as he spoke. A few of the stools in the rec had been moved over to Chip, but all were occupied by her mom, Auncle Tegan, her uncles, and Saleem.

The latter immediately jumped to his feet when she looked at him. She didn’t have the chance to protest. Saleem was already moving his stool over to her, smile large but not intimating. But that didn’t seem right, taking his seat when she knew good and well he enjoyed Chip’s rambles as much as she did. She sat on one half and waved at him to sit on the other. He did, and that smile turned infectious.

“Picture this,” Chip started. Shakey hands vaguely motioned the layout of the satellite array he described. “Soundwave’s no fool, but neither was I. I knew he was somewhere in the building with his little minions running around trying to find me.” He cracked himself up over a joke he didn't share as he indicated Bee, sitting just behind him. “Bee, here—he was fighting off Ravage for me while I didn’t just mess with old Sounders. I outright severed his connection to the servers.”

Mel let herself lean against Saleem’s side, and he to hers, as they listened to Chip spin a wild tale of a wheelchair-bound twenty-something kid and his Volkswagen taking on one of the Decepticon’s biggest bad. Like something out of a vintage cartoon, Mel thought fondly. Otherworldly but strangely wholesome.

It hadn’t occurred to her at the time, absorbed as she was in the thing she’d so badly wanted. Years later, at Chip Chase’s funeral, she thought back on that day.

Prowl had told her to value little moments. Sitting before the grave of a man who’d lived an inconceivable life, she felt rather blessed to have remembered the moment rather clearly. The smell of time lingering on a mad destined to pass on in his sleep not ten years later. The light rumbles of nearby, sentient engines enjoying possibly the last time they ever saw an old friend. The soft caress of someone she loved sitting against her, reveling in stories few would ever get to hear.

Small, insignificant, and no less valuable.

Chapter Text

The two of them worked in secret. One Cybertronian day was dedicated to the project everyone else thought they were spending all their time on. The next day, they focused on the real work.

Keeping track of what information to retain when was a bit of a struggle, JB was willing to admit. He had to know random shit about ‘Bot anatomy on a whim, but he also needed to learn an entirely new type of biochemistry for energon synthesis. Not to directly help so much as keep up as best he could with Skyfire’s progress.

Which was, for the record, incredibly slow.

“I’m going to ask a stupid question,” Muzhir prefaced, gingerly holding his mug of hot chai with both hands. “Isn't energon a crystal? Can’t you just grow it?”

JB sat back in his chair with his hands set on the table in front of him as a sign he wanted to speak. How to explain this? “Do you know how to make, uh…” His hands fumbled through the word in sign.

The gang stared at him. Great though they were at ASL after all these years, not one of them seemed to recognize the word.

Tegan tapped the table in frustration. “Shoot, I know this.”

“Clearly you don’t.”

“Neither do you.”

JB conceded to that. “Can’t remember the word in English. It’s the—the thing!” He made the motion again, holding up his right hand like a bottomless cup and moving his left through it like hairs springing out of the mimed container.

Navi mimicked it albeit mirrored. It took her a moment to switch from JB’s left-hand dominance to her right-handedness. Once she did, the “hairs” springing up were far more exaggerated. “Oh! Isn't that the sign for a geyser?”

“Oh yeah!” Muzhir signed as much, far too pleased with himself. “Yeah, I don’t know how to make one of those.”

“What? No—” JB waved them all off then repeated the word again. “The thing! You…well, you don’t eat it as is, I guess. But it’s in everything!”

“Wheat.” When Tegan had lifted their phone let alone started filming him, JB didn’t know. But film they did and used the clip to search for the sign’s meaning. “Or geyser. DuckDuckGo isn't sure.”

“Wheat! That’s it!” JB threw himself back in his chair. “Wheat! You can’t just make wheat, but we need it to live, right?”

“Not if you’re celiac,” Tegan pointed out.

“Is there gluten in wheat?” Navi set her coffee mug down to consider this more thoroughly. “No…no, that was a more stupid question that Muzhir’s.”

Said man cheered his chai at Navi. “You’re not wrong.”

“My point,” JB said to rein the gang back in, “is one does not simply ‘grow’ energon. At least not the kind the ‘Bots can consume. It has to be one of a few specific mineral compositions that are all, in their own unique ways, difficult to cultivate artificially without an initial crystal to grow off of.” He moved through the dreaded ‘wheat’ sign. “Hence, you can’t just make wheat without wheat.”

The three all nodded in unison as the information sank in. Tegan was the first to break the silence. “So, no progress has been made?”

“No, none at all.”

“Lovely,” Navi sang, sounding an awful lot like a tired Jazz.

And JB couldn’t really blame her. The longer Sky’s project dragged on, the longer the war did, and the less time they had to witness a potential peace. That last thought wasn’t given much thought. Not because he was ignorant of it but because he simply couldn’t give existential dread any energy if he hoped to make it through the week.  

So, he padded down the hall to the science wing after their break trying very hard not to think. Looking down at the floor with his hands in his pockets was signal enough to anyone familiar with him not to try striking up a conversation. He was neither listening nor able to speak. Most people didn’t bother telling him he was about to walk into them. They just assumed his hearing aids were off and moved out of the way.

But his ears were on. Hence he heard Skyfire whispering before he saw him. And hence why Sky didn’t seem concerned at first that JB had walked closer.

But JB’s ears were turned all the way on. So he definitely picked up the rushed, “Starscream isn't willing to risk anything just yet as far as he’s told me,” spoken in Sky’s accented English.

His friend was huddled in a pocket in the hallway where a jukebox used to stand before Wheeljack broke it (and later blew it up attempting to fix it). The space was plenty big enough for the massive dude to hide within, but JB was still impressed by the other three guys taking up the rest of the pocket. Tracks didn’t spare him more than a glance. Sideswipe gave him a surprised frown before waving as if nothing of any importance was going on. It was Sunstreaker who seemed to catch on first that they’d been overheard by the deaf guy.

The golden mech’s whole form darkened. “Don’t move.”

JB tried not to show how much the look made his spine crawl. “What?” he signed, feigning innocence.

Skyfire didn’t buy it. “JB, how much did you hear?”

“Something about you-know-who.” There was no point in lying, but still, JB shuffled nervously as he glanced between the brothers and Skyfire. “They know?”

Tracks scoffed. “Know what?”

“About Skyfire. About the plan.”

“What plan?”

“The—” JB motioned uselessly at the group. “What do you know?”

“Absolutely nothing. Who’s Skyfire?” That earned Tracks a snicker from his older brothers which he responded to with a jab to their sides. “Knock it, squares!”

Metallic footsteps and their accompanying vibrations forced JB’s mouth shut. He couldn’t tell which direction the sound was coming from, so he looked to the group for some indication of who was running towards them. Fortunately, Sunstreaker’s casual peak down the hall and motion for calm told JB all he needed to know.

Bluestreak did as his partner advised, slowing down after he rounded the corner heading towards them and staving off his visible need to word-vomit until Skyfire gave him the all-clear.

“JB knows.” When Sides asked how much, Skyfire frowned guiltily. “More than you than you lot, like. He’s met with Star a few times.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Blue huffed in relief, his wings likewise deflating. “I thought his audio receptors were turned off because he was just walking around as he does, so I didn’t stop him or anything when he passed me. I should have double checked, I guess, but he never has his receptors on when no one’s talking to him, and I didn’t want to start talking to him and get him to turn them on and then let him walk over to you without turning them off, and that would have been an awkward conversation, so I just didn’t.”

Sunstreaker waited patiently for Blue to pause before wrapping an arm around his partner. “You’re good.”

“None of you are,” JB said. If the ‘Bots’ reactions were anything to go by, he was perhaps a little too accusatory. Oh well. He just rolled with it. “How long have they known about you? And the birdy?” he asked Sky out loud and in sign. The latter less out of need or even habit and more for the sake of calling his friend’s husband a bird.

Sky had the good sense to cringe. “Aye, a while. They’re safe, though. I won’t chance speaking with them if they weren’t vetted.”

“By who, bird-man?” JB prompted.

Sides interrupted before Sky could answer. “One, bird-man?” He grinned something vicious. “I knew I liked you. Second, our parent is cool with Starscream and us through him. So relax, man, we’re good.”

“Your parent?” JB looked between the three brothers for any tells to no avail. “Just one of them?”

Sides shrugged. “One of them is closer to Screamer than the other. Our, uh, mom—” he motioned between himself and his twin, then pointed to Tracks “—his dad.” Sides threw on a wiry smile. “You people don’t have a word for a parent who’s both.”

“It does make things confusing,” Blue agreed. “At least the parent I would call ‘mom’ in English is also the current ‘mom’ to my sibling or else I’d have to change it or explain every time I refer to my parents in English what I mean and why they got switched up. It’s so inconvenient. You should have, like, at least four words. One for each of your genders and roles.” Blue’s wings canted in thought. “Several words, actually. You people love making categories for the inanest things and get upset when we don’t follow the rules. Which are not well defined, by the way.”

Tracks laughed like an old gay man. JB wished he could think of a better analogy, but that was the only thought slammed into his mind at the sound of the kid’s humor. Tracks’s remark didn’t help dissipate the image. “Imagine what it was like in the ‘20s and both your parents chose male holoforms.” He smiled, but there was a trauma behind his eyes JB recognized in Navi, Monica, and Tegan. “Actually, you probably don’t have to imagine. Shit’s wack.”

JB nodded thoughtfully, remembered what they were actually supposed to be talking about, then shook his head. “No, guys, I don’t care what you call your parents. I care that you three know about all Skyfire and—” he pointed to the brothers then jabbed a hand in Blue’s direction “—and the son of two ‘Bots we do not want in the know is also in the know.”

The twins both squared their shoulders while Skyfire fumbled through excuses in sign. None of which JB was listening to because Blue started rambling again.

At least Blue sounded nervous. “The only reason I know about Skyfire is because I’m close to Sunny’s family, and their, uh—his mom is friends with Starscream. I’ve been told plenty of things about plenty of ‘Cons, so keeping me in the loop wasn’t much of a thought. I already know stuff about, like, Soundwave that no one outside of my dad’s spec ops unit ought to know, but I haven’t said a word. And I’ve been meeting with Sunny’s parents for eons without my parents knowing. It’s—that’s just how it’s been ever since their mom was kicked out of the Autobot cause.”

Whether the lull in speech was an actual end to it or just Blue needing to cycle his vents, none of them waited to find out. Sunny dipped his head in a curt nod while Sides gave JB a thumbs up and a quick, “He’s clear, we swear.”

Fine. JB could accept that the four of them were keen enough to keep ‘Con stuff under wraps. The knot in his throat had little to do with them, though. He gazed up at his large friend with a pleading look. “Why wouldn’t you tell me other people were involved?” he signed.

Sky exaggerated his dejected look. “My bird trusts their mother,” he signed back, swaying his wings back and forth as much as he could in the cramped space. “And I trust my bird. I didn’t know how much they knew until Tracks mentioned knowing about me a few days ago.”

JB knew his friend too well not to catch the mistake. “Your days or mine?”

Sky looked away as he did the math. “Mine. Sorry. It’s been about one year. Forgot time is that fast.”

Not for the first time, JB had to remind himself he was an ant. Small, fast living, and insignificant. He didn't doubt Skyfire cared about him, but they both needed to keep his scale in mind. Himself, especially.

It made sense to involve ‘Bots. Humans wouldn’t live forever, and there was a high chance the war would end long after his life had. Still, the idea of no longer being needed lodged deep in JB’s chest. “Okay,” he signed with a dismissive wave. “Progress?”

“No more than the beginnings of an uprising. Star is collecting loyal people.” Sky tilted his head back and forth. “No. Not really.”

JB couldn’t help it. The thought was churning in his chest and moving his hands before he regained control over it. “My word will not be useful to your plan if I am dead when you decide to end the war.”

The statement had a predictable effect. The brothers and Blue may not have followed their conversation and stayed appropriately quiet, but Skyfire recoiled. Visibly. So much so he moved out of the pocket in the hall to kneel at JB’s feet. His face said more than his hands or voice ever could. It morphed through several stages of grief before settling on a deeply disturbed visage of dread.

“I can’t think that way,” Skyfire pleaded. His hands grasped at the air as he considered how to phrase himself. “I can’t. I know you live less than me. I hope bringing them in will speed up the process. I want you to see my people in peace. I want you to see so much more than I know you will.”

The knot loosened slightly. “At some point, we have to consider the inevitable,” he said out loud for his hands were occupied grabbing one of Skyfire’s fingers. “Just…just keep me in the loop. Okay?”

Sky nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “But I’ll do you better. I promise you, what you started will be seen through to the end of the war. One way or another.”

JB had to wonder what else he was being kept out of after their conversation a day ago. It was stupidly childish to feel upset about being left out of the mundane, or even the important, aspects of infinitely long lives. Some of his friends were ‘Bots. Some of the ‘Bots considered him their friend. What that friendship looked like depended on who was asked.

He was an ant. If he had a bug for a pet, he’d leave it to go do fun things for hours at a time, too. What did it matter that years may have passed for the little guy? The ant ought to know he was valued. Right?

But his mind still reeled over the childish nature of jealousy.

It taunted him with the indisputable. With his parents gone, not having any siblings, not knowing most of his extended family, and having no kids of his own, he was a forty-year-old man coming face-to-face with the realities of mortality. He was going to die alone. He thought he’d come to terms with that fact in his thirties, but it seemed the ache still festered somewhere deep in his psyche.

Wherever his musing would have taken him, they were put on hold when Navi and Tegan approached the corner table he’d sequestered in the mess hall. Jackie and Redford lingered right behind them.

“What’s up?” JB signed before making a show of turning his aids on.

Navi cocked her head back at the two boys. “Can they shadow you in the lab, today? I know it’s last minute, so you’re fine if you say no.”

Tegan nodded. “They can stay with me and Red if you’re busy.”

He looked between his friends and the teens standing awkwardly, the latter’s eyes darting around at nothing in particular. They really wanted to join him at work. He’d been a teen not too long ago to recognize the angsty-boy-too-cool-for-fun secretly being excited at the prospect of a passion.

So, he didn't hesitate. “Of course!” He stood, motioning passed his friends to address the boys. “What are you two interested in?”

Jackie shrugged like his mom, all cool and collected. Redford did likewise with the little skittery tells of Tegan in his lanky limbs.

Such specificity. “Alright then. Let’s go find out.” JB waved for them to follow after grabbing his coffee mug and saying a quick good-bye to their moms. They walked in silence to the science wing. Years of knowing each other cultivated comfort in it, in the quiet conversation simple glances and body language carried. Eventually, they walked beside their uncle into the lab’s main hall.

Brainstorm was scurrying around but spared a surprised wave for the boys just before peeking into an open doorway. “Percy! Jackie and Red are here!”

“What? Jackie?” Perceptor lunged out the door, nearly ramming into Brainstorm, before sense seemed to punch him in the gut. “Oh. Jackie Williams, you meant.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Brainstorm muttered.

The somber reminder of a friend lost didn’t linger in the air too long. Whether because the two knew Navi had named her son after Jackie Wilson and not Wheeljack or because they just didn’t want to remember, JB didn’t know. And he didn't bother asking.

Besides, Brainstorm was quick to move the conversation along. “There,” he said as he turned Perceptor towards the three humans. “Boys, don’t let Percy fool you. The only thing he can see is stupidity.”

Jackie gave them a hardy laugh. “Then we must be invisible.”

“Very amusing,” Perceptor droned. “What are the children doing here, JB?”

The man in question had to laugh, as well. “What makes you think I’m here?”

“I see stupidity.” Percy tapped the hard welds around an optic-socket with a small smirk.

The boys may have giggled, but all JB could do was grind his teeth behind a smile. “Yeah, yeah, smartass. They’re here to shadow me. Not sure what kind of science they’re interested in, yet.” He looked over his shoulder at the pair. “Have any questions for Percy?”

Ford was the one to raise his hand. After a moment of waiting for the kid to speak, JB signed for him to go ahead. “What is it you…do? Exactly?”

“Metallurgy and theoretical physics, depending on the time of day.” Percy huffed when his answer was met with silence. “Short answer: I engineer metals and think about projectiles.”

“Oh,” the boys sang in unison. Jackie bobbed his head politely. “Sounds neat.”

“It’s not, really.” Brainstorm grinned. That one specific grin. The one Perceptor had been trained to hear to avoid certain consequences. “Want to know what I—”

“They do not,” Percy was quick to interject.

“No, I’m sure they do.”

“I guarantee not a single human nor Autobot wants you to mentor these children.”

“You flatter me too much, Percy.” Brainstorm’s grin returned in full force. “I engineer the Autobot’s most infamous weapons. Want to see my disintegrator?”

“No,” Percy and JB said together, the former feeling around for the mad scientist in an effort to pull him back in his office while JB grabbed the boys.

“I’m not that terrible an influence, Percy,” the three of them heard the crazy mech say as they walked down the hall.

“Brainstorm…there’s a reason we’re never having children.”

“Because they’d be too intelligent for this universe to handle.”

“No.”

JB might have stuck around to witness their little “domestic”, as Percy called them, but he had teenagers to keep away from Brainstorm. So, he moved on to the next office space. “Beachcomber’s an environmental geologist,” he explained to the pair as they walked into the bot-sized doorway, “and Crosscut is a data scientist and language historian.”

Jackie’s dark eyes brightened. “Beachcomber’s a what?”

“What’s a data scientist?” Ford muttered. “Don’t all scientists work with data?”

Both great questions JB didn’t have decent answers for. So, he waved the two into the shared office. “Why don’t you ask them?”

Ask they did. Crosscut was a tad too busy (doing whatever it is he did), but Beachcomber smiled easily and talked even smoother. The boys were picked up and placed on his cluttered desk so the mech could show them his newest figures.

“How do you do that?” Ford wondered aloud.

“What?” Beachcomber pointed at the graph of various air quality measurements over the last several decades. “Make this?”

“Yeah, how’d you make all these colors and lines do that?” Ford traced his sights of the heat map in visible awe.

“I input organized data into a program I have here,” the scientist explained, opening said application and scrolling through the Cybertronian glyphs onscreen. “Then I use a script to tell the program what I want the data to look like.”

Ford never left Beachcomber’s desk. For the rest of his shift, JB let the two be as he dragged Jackie around to meet the rest of the science crew, ending with the one ‘Bot his nephew most definitely knew. Skyfire was as happy as ever to see the boy and happier still to show him their latest (official) work behind closed doors.

3D diagrams of the Cybertronian form held Jackie’s attention. “It’s so…I mean, I know you guys are mechanical. But it’s so mechanical.”

“Vastly different from yours, yeah?” Skyfire pulled up a few more holo-diagrams depicting more than just the average form. “We are a tad more varied, too. Humans have their quirks, but you don’t see people after flying about, now.”

Jackie shook his head, eyes darting between the minibot and seeker forms. “So different…”

JB took a careful step closer to the kid. “We can visit Ratchet, if you want. Or First Aid. Or any of the medical crew who’d like to walk you through some basic repairs.”

The boy wiped around to gaze at him. “They’d let me?”

“Not immediately, but if your sister can take lessons from Prowl on tactics, I don’t see why you couldn’t get lessons from someone in the med-crew.”

“Ah, sure,” Skyfire chimed in, “First Aid is a kind lad. He’d be glad to teach you anything you’d like to know.”

Jackie muttered something that sounded like excitement. “Tracks would be down, too, if he can.” He turned to JB. “Can Tracks go with me?”

The two were close, he knew that. So, JB didn’t outright deny him. “We’ll talk with Ratchet,” was all he said.

What a weak promise, yet it lit up Jackie’s whole being.

There it was. In an instant, JB put a name to that look. The same expression Ford later gave him as they collected the younger boy and headed back to the mess hall.

Evidence of a legacy. This—them—they were his life persisting outside his body. There was nothing really guaranteeing he or anything he ever did would remain integral to their beings, but the prospect existed, nonetheless. If he was anything, he was an uncle. Not just any uncle, the cool science uncle. And not just any cool science uncle, but Melody’s, Jackie’s, Redford’s, Saleem’s, and Naila’s uncle. And if he was anything to anyone else, he was a friend to the gang and to Skyfire.

Everything else be damned. His life meant a great deal to a great few. He supposed that was enough.

Chapter Text

The last twenty years of technological advances were, in JB’s biased opinion, mostly shit. Nothing was made to last, cellphones were more like tiny money miners than phones, and even being a part of the most classified military operation on the planet didn’t protect him from data brokers. Whatever those were.

But worst of all were the speakers.

No vibrations. None. There was a time in his glorious youth when speaker systems had a clear base that rattled to the music under his touch. Hearing music wasn’t always his thing for rather obvious reasons. Feeling it, though, could be euphoric with the right song and system.

“You’re what we call an old fart,” Jackie happily told him on their morning run after JB finished his rant on why he hadn’t gotten the latest iPhone yet. His sister didn’t even try to fight the insult to her dear, most beloved, cool uncle. Nope. She laughed right along with the stinker.

“You’re what we use to call ‘lame’,” JB hit back. “This isn't one of those boomer ‘back in my day’ bits. I’m serious. There’s a tragedy on our hands.”

“Sure there is,” his niece mocked with a far too satisfied grin that reminded JB of Monica.

JB shook his head, refocusing from his minor rant to keeping pace with the two teens. Why he ever agreed to letting them control his return to fitness, he couldn’t remember at the moment. They were at mile four of their run when he finally demanded they walk for a while.

Not, as Jackie implied, to rant more about how much better the ‘90s and early 2000s were. Though he was still thinking about a way to convince them how right he was when they came across a blue box.

No, not just a box. A boombox.

It laid on its back like it had been half-heartedly discarded on the side of the walking path. Which was a little odd given the base was private property walled off from the surrounding Nevada desert, but JB filed his confusion away for Tegan to obsess over later. Right now, he was too excited to speak.

Out loud, that is. “This!” he pointed at sound system along with the sign for cheering. “This is what I was talking about! Look at it!” He didn't care if his niece and nephew followed his rushed signs. His hands were quickly occupied picking up the sound system.

The thing was dense. Upon inspection, it was in fine condition save the dust and a few dents, and there was a pop-out pocket in the back housing four unmarked cassette tapes. At about two feet wide by a foot tall, the dual speakers were plenty large enough for his whole hand to fit over one comfortably.

His heart, he swore, skipped a beat.

Mel wasn’t quite so impressed. “Why was it discarded all the way out here?” She shoved her hands on her hips, looking like a lankier Navi, as she surveyed the path sprawling behind them. “The dumpsters are three miles that way and the base a mile more. Who would walk all the way over here just to drop it?”

“Questions for your Auncle. Come on!” JB hoisted the boombox onto his shoulder with some (minor) difficulty. “We’re cutting our run short. Let’s see if we can fix it up!”

Neither teen fought him on the matter, just followed at his side until they were close enough to jog ahead into the base. They were met with a wall of Red.

“No, no, no,” poor Red rushed out, small sparks starting to dance along her head. “Foreign objects are not permitted on the premises.”

Tegan, likewise, made to snatch the boombox from him. “JB. I am serious. Where did you find this? What is it? Do you have any idea its origins?”

“Is it a drone sent to spy on us?” Red Alert added with a panicked shivering of her armor.

JB played a useless game of keep-away until Inferno came up behind him to grab the boombox from his grasp. “It was thrown out,” he explained. “Come on, just do your scans to clear it for me. I’ve been wanting something like it for the longest time.”

Tegan huffed. “You could have ordered one.”

“From what? Amazon?” JB signed something vulgar in the name of the company’s villainous dynasty. “I’d rather the garbage, thank you very much.”

It took several hours of the security team performing a myriad of scans and tests, but garbage he did receive. JB brought his cleared sound system into the rec room both to display his new pride and joy and to ask around for engineering assistance. None of the science crew would be awake for another few days, but Blaster eagerly sat with him.

“You say it’s easier to hear with this thing?”

JB nodded. “Don’t know about this one in particular, but old systems like this have less of the staticky sound digital devices have.” He motioned at one of his aids then at the large speakers on the front of the box. “A lot of mics and speakers have this electric noise my aids’ mics pick up. It’s annoying, to say the least. And I know it’s not just mechanisms in general because you guys and old speakers like this one sound fine.”

“Oh!” Blaster leaned back in relief. “You hear it too? Thought it was just us.”

JB blinked up at the ‘Bot. “You—I’ve been here how long, and this has never come up?”

“Weird, man. So!” Blaster straightened his seated position on the floor so he could properly tinker with the boombox on the robo-coffee table. “I used to have something like this as an alt. I’m sure I can figure out how to make it work.”

Brilliant logic. JB knelt down next to the box to punch random buttons. “There should be an ‘on’ switch somewhere and a thing for batteries.”

“You don’t plug it into the wall?” The mech pushed at the upright handle on the box, knocking it down.

JB pushed it back up. “No, I’m telling you, this thing is probably older than I am.”

“A lot of things are older than you, kid.” Another thing was pushed, this time one of the white fast forward buttons on the front.

Nothing happened. “Yeah, well, a lot of stuff was also invented in my lifetime.” JB flipped the switch he found on the back bottom of the box then pressed the play button.

Nothing happened. “Like what?” Blaster grabbed the thing to turn it over in his hands until he found the pocket. “What’re these?”

“Tapes. One of the many things that went out of style in my life. CDs replaced them.” Once the box was set back down in front of him, JB grabbed a random tape. It was solid black and heavier than he remembered tapes being. “Then the internet was invented, and now everything is digit.”

“My man, I’m pretty sure we had internet in the ‘80s.”

“Not, uh.” JB didn’t care how childish he sounded. He was shoving the tape in the player and frantically smashing the play button. “There’s no thing for batteries. Maybe something gets wound up?”

Blaster wasn’t listening to his musings. “Yeah, huh. We was using the world wide network to send local transmissions when we first got here. Then the ‘90s hit, and we had access to y’all’s info database through the web.”

 “I was born in the ‘90s,” JB pointed out, still smashing the play button uselessly.

“The web was made in ’91.” Blaster smirked at him. “You born in ’91?”

He had to yield to that. “Well, no, but no civilian had it till—”

Music busted out the speakers.

Horribly loud music.

“Turn off!” Blaster signed as he recoiled.

JB quickly yanked his aids out before punching the pause button. To no avail. He resorted to pulling open the tape reader thing to force the system to quit playing. For a second, he thought the box was still playing music after removing the tape. But no, that had to just be the lingering vibrations coursing through the device.

“Fuck that,” Blaster signed with a visible huff. “Come with. Jazz can look at it.”

He was not about to deny the help.

JB let himself be carried into the spacious hanger the ‘Bots used as a command center and set down beside the boombox on one of the human walkways overlooking the room. While Blaster walked over to where Jazz and Prowl were pouring over a map, JB surveyed the area for familiar faces.

It didn’t take him long to spot Navi standing on the tactics map next to Prowl and to find Muzhir in idle conversation with Prime a few walkways over. The latter gave him a wave and short word to Prime before making his way over.

“Heard your music player trouble,” Muzhir teased. He groaned as he used the rails to lower himself to his knees. “Sounded like Mumford and Sons.”

“What?”

“Music was M U M F O R D and sons,” Muzhir signed, fingerspelling the name. “Heard the music from here.”

“No, I heard you,” JB said and gestured at his right ear. “Put this one back on. You said Mumford and Sons. Like, the band from the 2010s?”

Muzhir leaned back like he’d been flash banged. “They’re not that old.”

JB was not inclined to have this kind of conversation again, so he shook his head and reached for the black tape deck. “What’s a fairly recent band doing in a very old boombox?”

His friend hummed as he thought. “Maybe a fan burned an album onto the tapes. I used to do that with CDs.”

Ignoring his own doubts about whether one could even burn music onto tape, JB handed over the one he’d accidentally played. When Muzhir signed for another, he pulled out the next two.

There was the solid black one in Muzhir’s hands, a red and black one that seemed a little lighter, a yellow and black one equally less heavy, and a purply one JB never touched. His friend had paused him before he could.

“This reminds of those streams,” was all Muzhir said before the boombox erupted again.

Without a tape in its player, JB noted.

Keeping just the one aid on and turned as low as possible allowed him to listen in to the song being played while everyone else around him quickly covered their ears (or whatever equivalents the ‘Bots had). He did, in fact, recognize the tune, especially once he pressed a palm to the speaker. That thrumming…it was Mumford and Sons. “Dust Bowl Dance”, specifically, if the brassy tempo was anything to go by.

As the music slowly swelled, so too did the volume heedless of his and Muzhir’s attempts to shut the stupid thing off.

Waving from one of the ‘Bots caught JB’s attention, and he looked over to see Prime signing at him, “What is wrong?”

“I don’t know.” He picked up the boombox to set it precariously on the rail. With one hand, he asked, “Destroy?”

Prowl and Jazz both nodded, the latter squinting hard since his hands were being used to shield Navi rather than himself while the former’s wings quivered unsettlingly. Prime hesitated but ultimately nodded as well.

So, JB chucked it over the edge.

The boombox hit the ground. Not before unfolding. Quick shifts unfurled mechanical parts JB recognized as distinctly Cybertronian then expanded until the form took the shape of a mech taller than the walkway JB stood on.

As incredible as that was, vibrations in the metal below his feet drew his sight back to his friend. Muzhir had fallen on his back. In his hands were, instead of the tape decks, a huge black mechanical cat easily twice his size looming under two hovering birds.

Oh. JB swallowed his fear, sinking down to a crouch to side-eye the boombox mech.

A red visor meeting his sight was no surprise. Still, the vacant gaze froze his blood. As bright as the light behind it was, the glass still reflected the image of his rattling form as if the mech was outright mocking him. Like a middle schooler would an ant.

The song was still blaring out of Soundwave’s speakers, so JB subtly pulled his right aid out of his ear. The usual hum of silence was there with the added confusion of obviously affected airways. His mind could piece together that there was an overwhelming noise surrounding him, but it couldn’t actually process it into anything useful. Or, in this case, debilitating.

The three cassetticons scurried away from Muzhir without leaving a scratch on the withering human and either flew or leapt to the command center’s terminals. There, they met no resistance because there was no one not writhing on the floor at this point to resist them. Except him. Which, JB assumed, was rather obvious, but none of the minicons nor Soundwave seemed concerned.

That was, until Prime struggled to his feet.

JB actually sat up in pure elation at the sight of hope manifested. Only to be immediately deflated by Soundwave zapping some kind of invisible cannon blast into Prime’s face, knocking over the Autobot leader in a single move.

Worst of all, it looked cool. This dude was slick in a way no ‘Bot could ever hope to be. With his face shrouded by a mask and visor and a body, though a very light shade of blue, of equally invisible motion, he looked like a goddamn cryptid. Actually moving just exacerbated the confusing visual. For Soundwave jammed to the song as if he owned the base and all its occupants, dancing with an ease JB had never witnessed before.

Soundwave made a show of making his way to the comm station. Already incapacitated Autobots were shoved out of his way with a decisive foot. Anyone foolish enough to try to rise under the stabbing pain of the music in their heads was given a solid punch to the face.

The comm system must have been too easy to break into because before any of the ‘Bots racing over to defend their base had a chance to finish transforming, they were thrown to the ground by an invisible force.

And Soundwave just kept dancing.

JB couldn’t help but notice how carefully the enemy moved, though. Muzhir had told him years ago that Soundwave was a father of sorts to the minicons he harbored, and it seemed to be true given the strides Soundwave took to keep the three cassettes to his back and all Autobots to his front. Even while his moves looked laidback, JB could see little glances Soundwave gave the three as they worked on the terminals behind him.

Still, the mech had pizzaz. The mic Blaster used for the general channel was gripped in Soundwave’s hand as if he were in a music video.

Curiosity was just too tempting. JB put his right aid back in after making sure the volume was still turned low. The music was loud but manageable. He could make out about where they were in the song.

Something, something, “break my pride. I’ve nowhere to stand, and now nowhere to hide.” Dada, dada, dada, dada, “face what I’ve done and do my time!”

That last word was howled in a voice too deep to be Mumford. Or a son. JB watched closely as Soundwave mimed the instrumentals while he moved closer to the fallen Prime. The mech’s head bobbed a bit as the next verse started, the only real indication to JB he was singing along to the song.

“Well you are my accuser, now” something, something “Your oppression reeks of your” something “and disgrace!”

This next part, JB actually remembered. He followed the lyrics as Soundwave pointed a dangerous hand at the withered form of Optimus Prime.

“So one man has, and another has not. How can you love what it is you have got when you took it all from the weak hands of the poor?” Soundwave mimed a gun. “Liars and thieves, you know not what is in store.”

Well, fuck, this guy had a vendetta. About what exactly, JB had no way of knowing, but he had to assume the anger was personal.

“There will come a time” something, da dye, “You will pray to the God that you’ve always denied.”

JB started shuffling as best as his body could down the walkway. Maybe he couldn’t stop the cassetticons from doing whatever they were doing, but he could perhaps make it to the comms. If he could shut off Soundwave’s way of blasting this sound attack thing through the whole base, then someone more capable than him could intervene. Maybe.

All the while, he tried to pay attention to whatever grievance Soundwave was evidently up in arms over.

“And I’ll go out back, and I’ll get my gun,” the mech sang along, mimicking the recoil of shooting the Prime in the chest. “I’ll say, ‘You haven’t met me. I am the only son’.” Soundwave pulled back his arm to resume his enthralled dancing. Something, something, “break my pride!” Whatever the next line was, “Align my heart! My body! My mind! To face what I’ve done and do my time!”

Again, the last word was bellowed out and followed by instrumentals. If JB remembered correctly, this part was long. Soundwave’s more energetic dancing seemed to agree and acted as a suitable mask to JB’s sneaking. For once, he didn't have to worry about being unknowingly loud. Despite himself, he chuckled.

All humor died in his throat by the time he reached the end of the walkway. Or, more accurately, Ravage. The massive black cat thing growled at him, pushing his obedient ass back into the confines of the railing.

“Fine,” he signed at it.

The growling stopped. It cocked its head at him.

JB didn’t give it any more attention. The music changed and, shortly after, the singing resumed. That wasn’t what distracted him from the more immediate danger, though. It was the two birds taking to the air and gliding over to Soundwave’s shoulders.

Whatever they were after, they either didn’t find it or already stole it.

A ‘Con was still in their base. There wasn’t a single ‘Bot or human other than him able to counterattack.

They were all, in JB’s humble opinion, about to be thoroughly slaughtered.

There again, Soundwave surprised him. The song slowed down its pace to the last verse and, with its end came the end of the enemy’s reign. Ravage leapt back to rejoin its host, folding up into Soundwave’s open chest along with the two birds.

One last mock was spared for Prime. Soundwave stalked over to the larger form, bent down, and gently held Prime’s face. Odd, JB thought, until Soundwave sang the last, slowed words directly to Prime all the while tightening his grip. With the final notes sang, Soundwave ripped Prime’s battle mask clean off, letting it clatter to the floor like scrap metal.

A bright green swirl of light appeared nearby. Soundwave threw the mic he’d stolen—or just borrowed, apparently—and walked through without another word. The portal closed behind him just as he disappeared.

The base fell silent. JB waited a moment before risking turning his hearing aid up. He was met with the static moans of pained ‘Bots and heavy breathing of the few gathered humans.

No one was dead. He looked carefully at every single person in his sight up in the walkway. Twice. They were all rolling on the floor as the lingering effects of Soundwave’s audio attack slowly faded.

Soundwave had incapacitated the entire Autobot base. No one was killed.

JB filed that away with other complicated notions of war and Cybertronians. For now, there were friends to check on.

But the thought refused to be shoved down.

Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one thinking it. Muzhir was still cradling his head several hours after the infiltration while their group discussed what happened. “Why didn’t he go after one of the Wreckers?” he asked in a very quiet voice.

A volume Navi matched. “I don’t know. You’d think he’d use the chance to take out the unit or Ratchet. Anyone connected to Wheeljack. Lord knows I would have.”

Tegan tried to nod but cringed as the movement triggered their piercing headache. “Same. If we know Wheeljack blew up the New Mexico outpost with two of Soundwave’s cassettes in it, then Soundwave ought to know.”

“Yet, all he did was mock Optimus.” When all his friends groaned, JB remembered he still only had one aid in. He put back in his left one before speaking again in a much lower voice. “He also put on one hell of a concert.”

Navi gave him a dirty look. “Shut up. This is your fault.”

“I know, I know.”

Tegan leaned back carefully. “No, Soundwave would have found a way in without JB’s speaker obsession.” They sighed. “Red is furious over how easy it was for him to cut through our cyber security. We thought the system would hold against someone of Soundwave’s caliber.”

“Clearly not.”

“Thank you, Muzhir, for your insight.”

“Always here for it.”

Tegan groaned as they tried to readjust their seat. Their brow furrowed. “You two said there were four tapes. Our cameras only showed three minicons.”

JB shrugged, just as confused as to why the fourth wasn’t deployed, but Muzhir sat up to offer, “I think that’s the bat one. Rumble and Frenzy mentioned in their streams they had a younger brother who was staying neutral.”

“Okay,” Tegan muttered. “I think I’ll remember that when I can think.”

“So Soundwave has clear priorities.” Navi lowered her hands from her eyes to glare at the table. “He doesn’t kill unless he needs to. He doesn’t deploy his kids if they don’t want to be.” She nodded to herself. “He’s not a blind follower.”

“Agreed.” Muzhir took a deep breath to collect himself. “He’s struck me as a deeply emotional personal with equally deep loyalties. More a devotee than fanatic.” He and Tegan shared a look of gratitude JB couldn’t relate to. “Better to be infiltrated by Soundwave than someone else.”

Tegan may have nodded, but their voice was cautious when they asked JB, “Can you ask Skyfire to check on our base security? Soundwave knows our location. Red Alert may be confident our shields will keep the exact long-lats secret, but I won’t be as confident until Sky tells us we’re safe.”

Of course, he agreed. While the act of asking his friend for spy intel was a tad awkward for both of them, Skyfire gave away what he knew freely. “Star says Soundwave has no intention of sharing our location.” He canted his head to the door of his quarters. “Thank the twins and Tracks for that. Soundwave is good friends with Knock Out, as well. Neither him nor Star will do anything to risk their friend’s kids. This base will always be a safe place so long as those three live in it.”

Rationality was fine and all. It was Skyfire’s genuine confidence that calmed JB’s nerves.

This was only one of the many questions he now had, though. In the wait between the base being invaded and the ‘Bot’s coming to terms with it, JB had busied himself watching clips of the streams the minicon twins once hosted. Tegan had several full streams saved along with highlight reels. He’d skimmed through them in search of the mech he watched dance their way into embarrassing the entire Autobot army.

It hadn’t taken him long. The menacing voice so many soldiers claimed haunted their nightmares was nowhere to be found in the dorky dad the cassettes adored.

Soundwave wasn’t a fanatic. He wasn’t even a real loyalist if he was willing to honor his son’s neutrality in the heat of total warfare. Somewhere in the mindset of a Decepticon was a good person.

“Do you think it’s possible to recruit Soundwave?”

Skyfire shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said, letting his voice fade as his awareness did. Familiar tells, like flicking wings and twitching eyes, gave away the conversation he was having with his husband. “Star says Soundwave isn't easily swayed from the Decepticon cause.”

“Not easily,” JB echoed. “But not impossibly.”

His friend’s sad smile dashed his hopes. “I remember Soundwave from before my freeze. He was highly involved in the inception of the cause and was never very tolerant of Iacon’s way of life.”

“Iacon isn't the Autobots, though.” He checked his recall of conversations with his robo-peers. Doubt colored his memory. “Right?”

“No, they are much the same. Soundwave wouldn’t have it.”

That just begged the question. “Why?”

Skyfire worked his mouth around an answer for a long moment. “JB…I often take issue with where I am. Neither side is good nor inherently evil, of course, and the Decepticons have most certainly strayed from the original goals I admired.” The flyer drooped his wings. “But I was never after rooting for the governing party the Autobots spawned from. Many of the people I’ve met here are kind, yes. None of them are willing to admit the flaws ingrained in their policies, though.”

The flyer motioned at himself, hiking his wings up for emphasis. “Take me. Not one person aside from you attempted to speak with me as an equal. Even now, after I’ve shown I learned ASL, few talk to me directly. They always go through you. Why?” Sky fluttered his broad wings. “For the same reason I’ve seen people dismiss other flyers like Brainstorm.”

Thoughts of Brainstorm inevitably led them both to the other flyer’s blind partner. Skyfire sighed dejectedly. “Perceptor didn’t just know of me before the war. He considered me a friend. He was the one to approach me about joining the Autobots when they were just a few collective led by Orion Pax.”

JB nodded, remembering how upset Skyfire had looked when telling him about being forgettable.

“I told ‘Ceptor then I wanted no part of an organization trying out justice without a vary of functions in sight. That’s who created the Autobots. A group of upper class mechs with too much time on their hands and too little hate in their sparks to be in government or revolution proper. They are people who get all happy out talking of equity when there’s no differences in lives within their circles. They’re the kind of people to praise you, call you a dear friend, ask you to join their cause, then forget you ever existed. And then they use the few violent like Decepticons to point at and after make a case for being the better compromise for change. A change they can never understand personally.”

JB watched his friend’s wings rise and fall with the flux of emotions such a discussion inspired. He couldn’t say he was surprised, especially given his own experience with liberals’ brand of racism. Still, fond memories of being stood up for by Autobots of all shapes and sizes tainted his trust of Skyfire’s word.

“Why would Autobots be so quick to call out racism in humans if they allow the same concept to exist in their own cause?”

Skyfire made a troubled face. “No one wants to believe their way of life is founded in evils. I never doubted the good of the few. I don’t trust the collective.”

What was JB supposed to make of that? Of course, he agreed with his friend’s sentiment, but it contradicted his own experience being readily accepted into the Autobot folds. Which was something he knew Skyfire hadn’t exactly received. But that had to be more out of fear of an unknown, unaffiliated entity than prejudice. Or…or perhaps two things can be true.

His mind wandered back to the way Soundwave danced and sang. How the vicious Decepticon stayed close to the three cassettes and even kept one safely docked. The way he sang of retribution against the soft-hearted Prime. The anger boiling out of his being.

Soundwave could have run off and murdered all of them. On paper, it seemed like he should have.

But he didn't.

Chapter Text

Mel thanked God there were so many fabric stores in Nevada. Even if they had to drive over five hours to Las Vagas to get all the materials they needed, at least they eventually succeeded.

The hundredth bag of dark blue, gold, and light grey fabrics in hand, she heaved their last haul across the parking lot. The police SUV popped open trunk before she reached it—him. Mel resisted the habit of thanking Prowl since there were civilians in the parking lot. She did not, however, shy away from being gentle. The huge bag of fabrics in her hands was shoved into the cargo space alongside all the others mindful of Prowl’s back seat area. The SUV alt wasn’t as compact as his Datsun was, and his internal organs—gestation chamber included—had to be awkwardly crowded where the back seats ought to be. The last thing they needed was making Prowl nauseous because she’d pushed a ton of craft supplies on his internals.

Precarious as the bag situation was, Mel leapt back so the trunk door could be slammed shut before the cargo fell out.

“Is that it?” Saleem asked from the open passenger-seat window. When she looked his way, his grin brightened impossibly.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she rushed out. Lord only knew what she looked like what with her shirt canted from lugging the shopping bag across the parking lot and her hair going frizzy in the dry desert air. Still, the man was smiling at her all while she pulled the driver’s door open and threw herself in.

The vehicle grunted when she slammed the door closed. “Sorry, Prowl.”

Said moody mech just grumbled at her. His engine was idling, but he didn't shift gears. She was about to ask what the problem was when he beat her to it. “I feel sick.”

Mel tried to subtly glance at Sal to plan a swift evac.

“Not—I’m fine.” Prowl muttered something in Standard before revving his engine and taking off across the parking lot.

What a load of scrap. Mel held onto the center consol (and, consequently, bumped Sal’s arm) as Prowl darted around civilian cars as if the cop didn't know a single traffic law. Several bags in the back fell over. “Are you in a mood or a crisis?”

After a moment, Prowl finally relented. “Bit of both.”

Saleem chuckled at that. “Don’t even think about calling off their wedding plans.”

The car jerked quick, jostling them. “You humans are getting too bold for my liking.”

“I just meant I didn’t want to return all of this stuff.” Sal chuckled again and patted the car door. “I didn’t spend an hour arguing with that lady about me not being a terrorist just for you to get cold feet.”

Mel took a deep breath over Prowl’s confused, “Cold what?” to collect her words. Her mom had warned her ahead of their little road trip Prowl was getting antsy. Be calm. Be understanding. But be firm. “Ignore him. What about the choice of fabric is making you nauseous?”

The ploy worked perfectly. As usual. Prowl’s sneer couldn’t be seen in his altmode, but it could certainly be heard in his offended tone. “The gold I find gaudy, but it’s not the fabric itself.” His AC vents puffed out hot air, and he paused his thought to turn onto the highway. “It’s…I don’t know how to explain the ache of losing your child to someone who is, themself, a child.”

“One,” Mel started calmly, “I’m not a child. Two, you aren’t losing Bluestreak.”

“And yet, I ache.”

As much as she wanted to snark back at his dramatics, Mel bit her tongue. Prowl had always been a pillar of reason to her. Whether these feelings surrounding Bluestreak getting married were a legit part of him or something merely triggering his hormonal moodiness, she couldn’t say.

Regardless of the source of the feeling, it was there. Mel leaned back in her seat as she searched for advice her moms had given her. “You’re allowed to mourn phases of your life ending.”

“But at some point I have to get over myself? Is that what you want to say to me?” Prowl didn’t let her answer. “You’re right. I am allowed to be disappointed in the situation. If you think you are going to lecture me on the matter, need I remind you I’ve been driving all over Nevada for nearly a—” he spat out a time in Standard “—to buy supplies for an event I’d rather didn’t occur.” Prowl paused his rant to change lanes. “Melody, the parts of you that remind me of Navi are admirable, yes, but ill-placed.”

She shook her head despite Prowl not being able to see her. “You can’t just say you’re disappointed in Blue getting married then act like you’re fine going along with it.”

“Again, this is a difficult experience to explain to someone childless.”

“If my mothers didn’t 100 percent love whoever I was marrying, that would crush me.”

“Would you be with them, then?”

“That’s—” Unfair. It was unfair. But there was some truth in the insinuation Mel couldn’t really avoid. “Blue and Sunny are good together.”

“Being ‘good together’ is not the same as being a successful union.”

She couldn’t help the glance she gave Saleem. “They’ve made it this far, haven’t they?”

Prowl puffed his vents again. “A union is more than two people enjoying the other’s company.”

Sal sighed at that. “Sunny’s brothers are not that bad.”

Mel knew better. If Prowl was aware of how much her mother had told her or not, he didn’t comment, and she didn’t dare find out. She just patted Sal’s hand to quiet him and shook her head when he gave her a confused look. To Prowl, she pointed out, “I don’t think it’s worth crushing Blue to make a point.”

“You are looking at this through a very narrow lens, Melody.” A tone she knew too well banished his sneering. He was in teacher-mode now. “Take a different scenario. Two people wish to form a union. One’s family has either died or distanced themselves. The other’s is more complicated. His parents are traditional in every sense, and his chosen partner is foreign. They disapprove of mere association as professionals let alone a romantic partnership. Now, he has two options.”

She nodded along, setting aside all other contexts to focus on this one in isolation. “He can abide by his parent’s wishes or not.”

“To defy their disapproval is to be disowned.”

“Then they likely aren’t worth his efforts if they are so willing to disown him.”

“You are making assumptions. Two things can be true. You can love and be loved by the people who raised you. And you can come to realize they are deeply flawed. What is this pair to do?”

She reconsidered the scenario. “If he loves his partner enough to forfeit his family, then that’s what he should do.”

“And the two live with the understanding half of their union despises the other?”

“If the happiness outweighs the hate, yes.”

“I agree. Are you suggesting this scenario and Blue’s are the same situation?”

“No,” she answered readily. “But you act like it, sometimes.”

Prowl stayed silent for a moment, long enough for Mel to worry she’d overstepped. Yes, they were close. Years of her life spent training under Prowl had given her the confidence to talk freely to him. He was still above her. In respect as much as authority. The last thing she wanted was to truly upset him.

Beside her, Saleem quietly observed her with all the carefulness of his stepfather.

“Don’t ever compare me to a parent quick to disown.” Prowl’s voice had deepened to his more serious, personal tone. “I have lived the scenario posed. I know, more than Blue ever will, what it is like to be torn in two by my loved ones. I may not be thrilled by this ceremony, but I would be damned if I missed a moment of it.”

The conversation ended there.

Jazz, at least, was better at slapping on a smile. When they finally made it home, he was there to greet them right beside a vibrating Bluestreak.

“What you think, baby girl?” Jazz sang as Mel jumped out of the driver’s seat. “Got enough threads?”

She snorted up at him, not even bothering anymore to point out how old his Earth slang was. “Prowl’s whole trunk is full, so I’d hope so.” She gave the car’s side a pat.

“Ow.” It wasn’t an actual pained sound, more like an annoyed drone. Still, Prowl’s discomfort wasn’t anything to downplay. When Mel rattled off apologies, though, he changed his tune. “It’s fine, I promise.” As if to emphasize his point, he popped open his trunk door and let several bags fall out. “My…whatever you called it is pressed rather hard against the back driver’s side door. The plating is just sensitive after a long drive.”

“Uterus,” Saleem translated helpfully while grabbing the rest of the bags out to show an excitedly speechless Bluestreak. “Or womb. Or oven.”

Jazz stared down at the man looking, somehow, like he was quirking a brow. “I thought ovens baked things?”

“Yeah, you bake a kid until it’s done.”

“You what, now?”

“Don’t—” Melody tried to wave her hands around to catch Jazz’s attention. “No, just call it whatever it translates to.”

“Oh!” Blue finally chimed in, his entire body still vibrating. “You can call it the baby jail! Because it’s where human police put the prisoners in your alt!”

Mel had to take over unloading the last of the bags while Sal doubled over laughing (along with Jazz, much to Prowl’s protests). Once finished, she tapped lightly on the trunk door for Prowl to close it.

Witnessing a ‘Bot transform never ceased to amaze her, even after twenty-five years’ worth of its mundanity. Prowl’s transformations, especially, were becoming an ever-changing process as his body tried to find effective ways of transforming around his pregnancy. Putting the “baby jail” where the back seats ought to be in his altmode seemed to work rather well as the car’s undercarriage folded around his middle and the back doors shifted to be his doorwings. The only cumbersome part was the trunk. His old Datsun alt had fit him perfectly. The SUV still had too much empty space. It made getting the plating where he needed it to go that much more of a hassle.

Which, if his stumble into Jazz’s arms was any indication, was a challenge he hadn’t quite worked through yet.

But that was where Jazz’s charm came in handy. “Beautiful, babe,” Jazz sang as he adjusted his hold on Prowl to lay one hand on the mech’s chest and the other on his side. “Just downright grace slipping off you.” Prowl’s scoffed, “Slipping?” didn’t diminish Jazz’s shine in the least. He just turned it on Blue. “Baby Blue, how’s it look?”

Mel was almost afraid of the answer. Of course, she’d drag herself on another road trip across Nevada if so much as one patch of fabric wasn’t to her friend’s liking. But she’d rather not have to. And looking at Sal’s thin smile, he seemed to be thinking the same.

Fortunately for everyone involved, Blue was rustling through the haul like it was Christmas. His wings flapping were clue enough that he was thrilled. Being speechless, though? That spoke volumes. Blue just held up the dark blue and gold fabrics like they were a dream incarnate.

“Fancy,” Jazz laughed, leaving Prowl to the mech’s post-drive stretching so he could riffle through the wares himself. He made a satisfied sound as he carefully slid a few yards of the dark blue velveteen between his fingers. “Real fancy feel. It’s so soft.” He gave his son a playful jab on the arm. “What you say to the kind people who bought this for you?”

“I’m so happy,” Blue squeaked. “I can’t!”

 “Say no more,” Saleem sang, smile wide and infectious. “Happy to earn my wedding invitation.”

“Earn?” Blue balked without a hint of his smile faltering. “More than earned! I don’t know how to make it up to you two.”

Mel bumped Sal’s arm to keep him from speaking. Instead of whatever cute quip he was prepared to unleash, she offered Blue a more genuine tease. “Just wear it well for us.”

“Me and Sunny, both,” Blue promised. “We’ll be sure to dazzle!”

The Two Gen Gang—as Jazz had dubbed them—had been given a history lesson by Prowl and Jazz a few years before the wedding was supposed to take place. Mel had been twenty at the time and her brother just seventeen, so they remembered the gist of the lecture.

Unfortunately, Smokescreen and his bottle of engex were the only available parties to help clarify memory’s error.

“Not a dress. More like a, uh, cape or cloak thing.”

Mel tried to no avail to imagine how that would look on someone with wings and metal shoulder pads. “Does it go over the armor?”

Redford nodded, adding, “I thought Blue’s back panels were sensitive. Wouldn’t a cloak rub them?”

Smokescreen let all the air out of his vents as he leaned into the low-back couch. He took a slow swig of his drink before answering. “I don’t know, kiddos. Blue’s doing some amalgamation of his parents’ rituals…or whatever you want to call it. I…I think he’s leaning more to Jazz’s?” He sipped his drink in thought. “Yeah. Yeah, he’d have to. Can’t imagine you’d have the kind of material Prowl and I had in, uh, the place we grew up. It was some metallic stuff that you could barely feel on your sensors.”

Naila pulled at the end of her hijab to show the ‘Bot. “Like this?”

“No…” Smokey didn’t actually look, just drank. “I don’t know what it was, but I think Prowl has some scraps of it stowed away in a safe somewhere. He’s the one to ask about home stuff. When I left, I fucking left.” His eyes widened in a panic. “How old are you, again?”

“Not children, you’re fine,” Saleem assured but extended an arm out as if to shield his sister from the ‘Bot’s swear words, regardless. She was the youngest of them, afterall. “So, if it’s not going over his wings like in your culture, what is he doing?”

Smokey relaxed back into the couch. “It’s like paneling down the front that connects in the back. Think Blue’s will drop lower under his doorwings, but Sunstreaker would have them like normal. Think of, uh…what’s the funny looking noose?”

The five of them all recoiled until Jackie seemed to connect the dots. “A scarf?”

Smokescreen pointed at him like that old Decaprio meme. “That! But instead of it going around your throat, it hangs across your front. And it’ll be wider panels because, you know, trying to kind of look like the cloak thing.”

For all that he said, Melody wasn’t quite sure Smokey was making sense. It was a wonder how the guy was in any way related to Prowl, let alone his brother. “So, not a dress or tux. Or a veil?”

The ‘Bot finished off the last of his drink and rose to pour a habitual third round of whatever concoction Sideswipe had brewed him. The bright pink liquid swirled in the robot-sized glass before being tipped back. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Watching Smokescreen drown himself wasn’t on their list of fun base activities, so the five of them retreated to the corridor outside the rec room in the hopes of finding someone more entertaining. Hoist and Grapple passed them on their way out, bickering over something or other.

Jackie pulled out his phone and gave them all a curt nod once they reached the hall. “Texted Tracks. Good luck to the rest of you.”

“Wait! Can we play Portal 5?” Redford’s eyes blew up in desperation. When Jackie just kept walking towards the barracks, he ran after him.

And then there were three.

“Well,” Naila sighed, looking between her brother and Mel like a third wheel. “You two have fun.”

Saleem motioned to themselves then the two lovebirds arguing about some statue Grapple couldn’t get approval to build. “With what?”

“I don’t know, stare at each other some more.” She waved the two of them off then motioned down another hall, where the human living quarters resided. “I’m getting mom to take me dress shopping.”

Mel shook her head at the girl’s audacity. “Maybe I’d like to go with you.”

Naila didn’t look at her, just started walking away. “You’ll just end up in that blue blazer and slacks.”

She was probably right, but Mel still tried to look offended. By Saleem’s cute laugh, she was doing a poor job of it.

“I happen to like that blazer on you.”

What was she supposed to say to that? “Okay.” She kicked herself. “I’ll be sure to wear it.” Good God.

“I’ll be sure to match.” That grin of his melted her. And as if he hadn’t just given her a minor crisis, he offered, “Hanger?” like it was utterly normal.

And in a way, it was. Their days spent in the shadows of their parents and ‘Bots together were practically ordinary, thrilling though the man’s company could be. Of course, she said, “Okay,” and followed by his side as they headed to the command center.

Conversation normally flowed between them. Neither had many memories of life before the other, so there was very little they couldn’t discuss. Yet, Melody found herself as drunk as Smokey when Sal asked her, “Have you ever thought of about your own wedding?”

There were two ways to play this. She knew as well as he did they adored each other. What was the harm in using the question to her advantage? It was more a debate of “cool” or “sweet” flirting less a matter of nerves keeping her mouth shut. In the end, she leaned into the bit of courage rising up out of nowhere. “I have.”

“Oh?” He beamed at her. “What does it look like?”

“I don’t know. What does yours?”

Melody couldn’t help her vicious grin from hearing the man’s breath hitch.

Bluestreak and Sunstreaker got married outside. The sun had started setting over the desert horizon when the two were handed off to each other.

That was the part Mel was most fond of. There was an open path between the guests—Bots and humans alike—the wedding party walked through that led to a pretty arch. But there was no groom waiting at the altar for the bride. The couple met behind the crowd. Prowl and Jazz handed off their son while Sideswipe and Tracks gave away their brother. The pair were given a moment to gawk at each other, revel in their shared excitement, then take their first steps toward a life unified together between the parted gathering of friends and brothers-in-arms.

The actual vow exchange, according to Sal, was the best part of the ceremony. One by one, the wedding party gave their blessing to the couple, who knelt under the ach with their heads bowed. First Jazz, then Sideswipe, then Prowl, Tracks, Smokescreen, and so on, alternating sides of the new family until Optimus Prime approached the two and had them rise. Prime recited in Standard a sermon of some kind as he had the two lay their hands, palms up, in each other’s hold. Then the ends of their robes were placed on top.

The ceremony ended not with a kiss but with the tying of the two into one being. Physically as much as metaphorically. Prime tied their garments together.

“I think it’s sweet,” Sal explained.

Mel tilted her head near his. “You just like the pun.”

“Tying the knot.” He laughed, lamenting, “It’s utterly wasted on aliens who don’t understand idioms.”

Muzhir nodded along. “It’s a good pun.” He leaned his weight into his arms laying across the reception table. “Navi, when Prowl said soon—”

“Soon means within two human hours.” Her mother crossed her arms over her chest to give Muzhir an incredulous look. “They’ll be back in less than twenty minutes.”

Tegan and Redford seemed placated by that, but JB cocked his head with a hum. “They had to wait till marriage, right? Are we sure they’ll only need a day? That’s about an hour for them.”

Navi didn’t budge. “Prowl said soon. They’ll be back soon.”

“Besides,” Monica added, “they didn’t wait.” When the whole table stared at her, she glanced between them then looked to her wife. “They definitely didn’t, right?”

“As far as Jazz and Prowl are concerned, they did.”

Mel grabbed her wine and tried to seem busy sniffing it. Not that she was especially uncomfortable with older adults talking about sex. Neither was she necessarily prudish with the ceremony including time for the couple to “merge sparks” as consummation since it seemed all that entailed was forging an actual subconscious link between the two. No, her nerves danced for the same reason Jackie’s, Ford’s, Naila’s, and Salmeen’s did.

They’d known for a long while the pair hadn’t waited. They also knew, thanks to Tracks slipping up, that Blue and Sunny were sneaking off to visit the latter’s parents. A second, much shorter celebration, according to Tracks.

 So, Mel sipped her wine and prayed for the couple’s sake the mini ceremony didn’t go over schedule.

Blue and Sunstreaker raced into the rec room literal seconds before her mother called time. “Here!” Blue cheered above the ‘Bots teasing the pair for having too good a first time.

If anyone else noticed the newlyweds’ robes were tied differently, Mel was not about to point it out. Instead, she joined in the crowd’s joyful applaud.

After pleasantries and thanks were given, the actual party started. Music from a variety of Earth and Cybertronian eras weaved together under Blaster’s skillful hand, and the dimmed lighting set the mood for a rave. The first dance Blue and Sunny had was as loud and vibrant as the couple themselves, set to an Earth reggae song that had the whole building humming in tune with the bass.

The humans were not immune. Scaffolding and strategically placed furniture gave them all the room they needed to dance among the ‘Bots without getting squished. Mel enjoyed jamming to old alt-rock songs she and her mom knew and belting classic pop ballads with her mother. Her uncles, aunt, and auncle made fools of themselves dancing as if they knew how.

When the first actual slow song finally came on (two hours in), Mel watched her parents and their friends break off into pairs. Two married couples and a pair of life-long friends. Ford, Jackie, and Naila didn’t hesitate to grab each other’s hands in a rejoicing of platonic love.

Saleem leaning into her was a very wanted feeling of ecstasy. The ease of his hold on her, the comfort in his form—Mel let herself sink into it. Their gazes didn’t lock, and they didn’t need them to. There’d be more time and better lighting ahead of them for such lovely cliches. Instead, they swayed and twirled and snarked back and forth all the intimacies they spotted.

“They look like school children,” Sal pointed out, turning them so Mel could see the horde of minibots dancing in a circle together. “But the kind that could beat me up.”

Mel snorted. “They’re hobbits.”

She had to hold Saleem up as he laughed, a hushed kind of shaking as if mirth stole his voice as much as his air. Good God, was it the most enchanting thing.

The song eventually ended. While all other couples, Mel and Sal included, pulled away to prepare for the next song, Blue and Sunny were still in each other’s grip. With a flourish only Sunny could achieve, the pair kissed into a movie-like dip. Blue tipped back easily into his husband’s embrace, kicking up one leg to wrap it around the bulkier mech’s waist.

When they broke apart, they did so to the tune of Blue shouting out, “I love you!” and Sunstreaker’s responding roar, “I love you!”

Sweet, yes. Even endearing. But their show of affection was nothing compared to Sal’s hands lightly rubbing her shoulders and near whispered, “When you imagine being in love, does it look like that to you?”

She could only play it one way. “No. You look nothing like them.”

Chapter Text

The hallway leading from the rec room to the command center was the best way to run into ‘Bots. At sixteen, Mel had taken to walking up and down the long corridor whenever boredom got the best of her. Sometimes she’d find Beachcomber, who was always down for off-roading in Nevada’s dry landscape. Sometimes Grapple spotted her and asked if she cared to view his plans for expanding the military base. More often than not, Jazz found her first on one of his morale patrols and let her tag along.

It wasn’t until she was twenty she noticed the slightest of changes.

She knew from living her entire life among aliens that they lived far longer lives. She knew two decades for her were only about three months for them. Not unlike watching a dog grow from helpless and blind to being a fully functioning adult in less than a year, or so Uncle JB had explained.

“They may only have you in their lives for a year, their time.” Keeping his expressions neutral or even just muted was not a skill her uncle possessed. She could see JB’s grief in his wide eyes and exaggerated frown. “How do you love someone you know will leave you so soon?”

“You just do.” Said with the confidence of a child. For she was one at the time. Twenty years old, still under the naïve belief her life would stop changing at thirty.

But even under her own illusions, change happened. Starting with bright smiles that faded to polite nods. Nods morphed to pretend distracted gazes. Pretending grew old.

Surely, she’d thought, a battle had plummeted morale. The friends her mother made would be hers in time now that she was adult enough to play their conversational games. Brawn would stop watching his curses around her. Bulkhead would stop censoring war stories. Windcharger would take her off-roading—real off-roading, he’d promised her, with all sorts of dangerous terrain.

At twenty-three, Mel walked up and down the long hall when boredom caught her. ‘Bots didn’t just walk by her. They actively raised their gazes so as not to notice hers.

“Can’t be everyone,” Jackie insisted. From where he sat on Tracks’s shoulder, the both of them more engrossed in their video game than her venting, he lazily towered over his older sister. “Tracks is cool with you.”

“Right on,” the young mech agreed.

Mel gave the two a frown that neither bothered to see. “Do you know if anyone does hate me or something, Tracks?”

“How should I know?” Tracks sneered with a huff. “Do you know anyone who doesn’t hate me?”

Point taken, inaccurate though the sentiment was. Mel knew Tracks was still young, though. It wasn’t so long ago she felt the same intensity of mundane emotions that plagued older teens.

Thinking back, perhaps she had angered someone. She wasn’t the oldest child raised on base, not even the eldest child of her mothers’ friend group thanks to Sal, but maybe an outburst she’d had as a teen was the last straw for some ‘Bots.

“Nonsense.” Prowl’s tone never left room for debate. There was comfort in her mentor’s icy gaze and stone-set face. Cold, maybe even indifferent to many. To her? The epitome of stability.

Besides, Jazz carried enough warmth for the both of them. “Not a chance, baby girl. No one hates you.”

“But they do dismiss me.”

Neither mech responded immediately. Jazz even smiled in that sad sort of sway he’d use to deliver bad news.

“This,” Prowl started evenly, “is not a matter of opinion toward you by any Autobot.”

“No, not at all,” Jazz agreed. “Promise, has nothing to do with you. Technically.”

As the three of them were in Prowl’s office with both mechs towering over the desk she sat on, the reassurance couldn’t have fallen flatter. Mel looked up at the pair like a child. “Technically?”

Prowl’s wings twitched. “People react in a variety of ways to difficult aspects of life. Some choose to accept mortality by embracing that which is short-lived. Others opt to avoid that which will inevitably harm them. Moreover, we are not merely people but soldiers in a war that has taken more lives than one can fathom. Not everyone stationed here is keen to choose suffering the burden of loving someone volatile.”

Jazz canted his helm to raise his half-smile. “It’s hard. We’re watching you grow up before our eyes. And when you was teeny tiny, that was all good fun. You’re older, now. We’re watching you die.” He motioned to himself and Prowl. “We’ve chosen to embrace what time we’re going to get with you. Lot of ‘Bots aren’t. That ain’t on you, baby girl, just the way it is.”

Mel nodded with no conviction behind the motion. She was twenty-three, after all. A child still in all the ways that mattered. How was she to understand the distance between a fragile thing and the being too afraid to love it? Impossible. Not as long as life intended to be coasted on by thirty.

She was twenty-four when silence became simultaneously peaceful and too loud. Twenty-five when she realized neither marriage nor career fixed any of her problems. Twenty-six when she came to expect diverted gazes at best and uncomfortable nods at worst. Twenty-seven when she finally did something about it.

Prowl and Jazz weren’t wrong when they told her the blame lay with no one. Not her, not the ‘Bots struggling to know her, certainly not the ‘Bots who chose to value their sanity.

But she’d be damned if she didn’t leave a mark in their memories of Earth.

Tactics was an easy field to interject herself. Her mothers couldn’t deny her desire to participate in a role that kept her off the battlefield. Prowl hadn’t even taken convincing to adopt an eager protégé. Lord knew no one else was vying for the job.

The latter, Mel was willing to admit, had some validity. Were she not fixated on being so directly involved, and had she not grown up with Prowl being…Prowl, she might have gawked at the offered tactician position, too.

Case in point:

“Ironhide!” The venom in the single word rivaled any authoritative tone Optimus Prime used mid-battle. “She told you to cover!”

“I am, man!” ‘Hide made the mistake of talking back. The Wreckers spread across the course froze over, eyes wide and glancing between ‘Hide and “the Imp”.

Ultra Mangus even managed to look sterner. “Prowl,” he started in a neutral tone.

Not that his effort mattered. Prowl was on him in a flash of hiked up doorwings and blazing blue eyes. “This! This is the problem with your unit, Magnus! They don’t listen to me, how is anyone to trust their orders will be followed? You think I bark at you lot for no reason?”

“No, I—”

“Then get them in line!” Prowl pushed him—physically moved the hulking mass easily thrice his size—against the barricade separating tactics from the obstacle course set up along a vacant strip of Nevada desert. “Or the Wreckers will be pulled from battles!”

Mel fiddled with her headset, wisely keeping her mouth shut as Ultra Magnus sputtered out some excuse or other about Ironhide not even being an official Wrecker, just a float. His doom, she supposed. Her only focus was on the simulated battle Prowl crafted. War didn’t pause like this drill did, so she took advantage of the extra time to think.

Hence why she about jumped out her skin when Jazz piped up beside her. “Prowl senses tingling. What happened?”

“Good Lord,” she swore. Her co-mentor’s head peaked out over the edge of the desk she stood on, so all she could see of him were the shiny visor and matte black helm. The stubby horns reminded her of a puppy whose ears hadn’t lost their floppiness just yet. Far too cute a comparison for the head of Spec Ops (pun intended). “’Hide took a second too long to follow my order.”

“Ah, that’ll do it.” Jazz grabbed the desk’s edge with a single hand to pull himself up slightly. She couldn’t see his eyes, but the way his head canted betrayed his wandering gaze. “What’s ‘Hide got to do with Magnus?”

“He tried to defend ‘Hide.”

“Well…” Jazz made a thoughtful whistling noise. “Yeah, no, that’s on Maggy.” With that, he stood up and lazily threw both hands on his hips.

“You’re not going to help him?”

“Who? Prowl?”

“No, saving Magnus from Prowl.”

“Oh! No, I’m not getting in between that.” He motioned at himself and the one-sided argument with a casual hand. “He don’t got to sleep with Prowl, so what’s he to lose?”

Mel furrowed her brow and looked over at poor Magnus shrinking under Prowl’s ire. “Dignity?”

“Nah,” Jazz sang far too cheerily. “Everybody’s been on the wrong end of Bastard Prowl one time or another. No losing respect over that.”

“Bastard Prowl?” she echoed. “I haven’t experienced him yet. Not at me, at least.”

Jazz dazzled her with one of his charming grins. “That’s because you’re our baby girl, baby girl. Blue knows all about the perks of being Prowl’s.”

“So, you and Blue don’t—”

“No, no, we do. It’s standard hazing procedure. Everyone enlisted in some way or other gets to be on the bad end of Bastard Prowl. Humbles you.”

“Geez,” Mel breathed. Looking back at Ultra Magnus completely losing his stature solidified her convictions. Her job was stable and so was her authority so long as she remained beside the short titan. Future secured, she returned to the matter at present. “So, what do we do?”

“Wait it out.”

“Oh.” Impatience won her over after all of two seconds. “For how long?”

“Till he gets it out his system.”

“And…how long does that take?”

Jazz shrugged.

“Has he always been like this?” When Jazz hummed in question, she prompted, “Even when he wasn’t carrying?”

The visor brightened as if a light bulb suddenly blinked on behind it. “Welp,” Jazz huffed and took a long draw through his vents. Then he turned full-body to Prowl. Who was now crouching he was screaming so intensely. “That might, uh, might affect some things.” Only after Prowl visibly searched his surroundings for a table to flip did Jazz cringe into motion.

Calming an enflamed Prowl down was no easy feat. It took several minutes of Jazz circling Prowl to even catch the latter’s attention and several more of gentle coaxing to make contact. Soft pets to his hands finally lowered Prowl’s wings but not his volume. Prowl was still yelling his head off as Jazz patiently dragged him over to one of the dummies on the obstacle course.

As Prowl lugged the dummy overhead and threw it across desert, Mel kept her eye on a bright red blur leaping over to Ultra Magnus’s fallen form. The large leader of the Wreckers had collapsed against the barricade under the pressure of Prowl’s wrath. Hot Rod didn’t (or perhaps couldn’t) pull him back up to his feet. He did, though, laugh off the whole thing.

Neither acknowledged her. She tried, honest to God tried, to tell herself nothing meant nothing. The pair were partners of some variety. Of course they’d be engrossed in one another without a care for the bug living among them.

“You think too hard.”

The statement didn’t make much sense, but Mel gave her husband a pass. The sun was setting, and Sal was staring down the dining table of food she’d made in childlike glee.

“I think just fine.” Mel sat down at the table and fiddled with one of the flower decorations. Her mom had brought them back from a trip to see her extended family as an “I’m sorry” gift from her grandmother. As if flowers made up for her husband not being invited to the family gathering.

“You’re still doing it.” Sal poked her arm playfully. She didn’t miss his quick check of the time nor his eventual lingering on the petals between her fingers. “Are you still upset?”

“Are you not?”

“Whether I am or not doesn’t change things.” Sal finally sat down in the chair beside her. A dangerous game, they both knew, for how close he now was to her homemade mac and cheese. His pupils dilated when he took a peek at it. A deep breath refocused him on her. “Monica’s family was iffy on her marrying Navi. I knew there was drama long before I married you.”

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“No,” Saleem admitted, “but I chose to love you and your family regardless of the hurt they may bring me. It’s on them what they chose to do with me just the same.” He checked the time again. “One minute…”

“I don’t see why they don’t choose to include you,” she mused, grabbing Sal’s cup of water and placing it in front of him. “Reminds me of—when me and Jackie were little—of my grandparents telling us to go play outside when my cousins and all were over. Whenever my mom’s siblings were around, they suddenly decided we weren’t worth their sight.”

The clock struck 19:32. Her husband was lost to elation for the next fifteen to twenty minutes as he downed a glass of water and half the mac and cheese. Then he made dents in the potato salad, cornbread dressing, pakora, and spread of meats, cheeses, veggies, and hummus. Sal was winding down iftar by alternating between bites of baklava and banana pudding when insight filled his eyes.

Her husband set the food down to pause the idle conversation they’d fallen into. “’Not worth their sight’? What did you mean by that?”

Mel took a breath to gather her thoughts. “I don’t know.” She hadn’t really chosen those words with care, they’d just escaped her. “It was like they stopped wanting to look at us even though my grandmother said she wanted us there.”

“Your grandfather never said anything?”

“Not in words, no.”

Sal hummed in thought over a third glass of water. “Like the Autobots.” Said so sagely as if it didn’t warrant elaboration.

Mel begged to differ. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen your restlessness around them, especially the ‘Bots who stopped talking to us. Even after years of coming to terms with the change myself, don’t think I’ve ignored the way it’s fueled you into authority.” He offered her a knowing smile. “You’re your mother’s daughter, Mel. For as much as Navi commands a room, you demand the same level of respect. And attention. But you can’t make anyone love you just because you love them.”

He giggled, more to himself than with her, and gestured his glass at her. “Weren’t you telling me the other day that I can apologize all I want, but that doesn’t mean they’re obligated to forgive me?” His grin turned smug. “Same thing with love, my love.”

Cheeky, but no less right.

But she didn’t accept the truth until she was twenty-nine going on thirty. Her life wasn’t coasting like it should have. Changes were afoot, tearing apart her certainties in the littlest of ways.

Prowl nodded through her emotional tirade in genuine understanding. But how could he know this fear?

“It’s too much,” she whined like a child, herself, complete with burying her face in her mom’s chest. The warm embrace tightened around her form.

“I know, baby.” Navi’s voice hummed through her body like a lullaby. “I wish I could have warned you better.”

Mel didn’t doubt the sentiment. Afterall, she’d made her desires clear. She had work to do and a life to lead, plans for a child not included. Even Sal, happy though he was by the idea, was holed up in their room praying for guidance through the shock of it all.

“You know,” her mom continued slowly, “your Auncle never wanted kids, either. But then they got custody of Ford, and they had to completely change their lifestyle.”

She knew that already. And it was not the same. Auncle Tegan had been younger, less set in their ways. They’d integrated a whole baby into their routine. Mel had seven more months to wallow in her lost dream of coasting.

None of her thoughts were shared in their entirety. A scoff sufficed.

“Jazz and I weren’t prepared for any of our creations.”

The strangely strained tone caught her attention, first, then the implied plurality in the words. “What?” she asked, peeling away from her mom to look up at the seemingly ageless being.

Prowl looked back with eyes no older than her mothers’. “We rescued Bluestreak from the ruins of my home city-state. There was no plan, and it tore at me not knowing the next steps in our lives. We bonded much earlier than I originally wanted, we moved in before I’d processed what was happening, and we had a toddler with PTSD to suddenly care for.”

She knew that, as well. “I remember—”

Prowl did let her interrupt. “Then we conceived. Blue wasn’t older than five, and Jazz and I were officers in our own departments. The baby wasn’t intended. All the plans I had made once Blue settled into our lives were thrown out, again. And once more when the baby died.” He motioned stiffly to himself. “And here I am again with an addition I hadn’t accounted for.”

He leaned forward on his desk so his folded hands were close enough to be touched should Mel chose to. “Disturbance happens. It has, it does, and it will. There’s no accounting for it. There’s no room to cry over the expectedly unexpected. Adapt and move forward.”

Her mom squeezed her close. “Crying isn't a crime. You can cry all you need over this, okay? Just know that’s just for you to clear your mind, nothing more. It’s okay to feel anxious. It’s not okay to let it consume you.”

But how could it not consume her? Every day that passed was another weight added to her troubles, literally and metaphorically. What else was there to mull over other than this thing reshaping her body and dumping her mind with unnecessary stress?

Worse yet were the stares. The more she started to show, the more bright smiled questions she was asked by peers who’d rarely (if ever) paid her any mind. When was she due? Was she excited? Was Saleem? What were they having? What did they want to have? Did they plan to stay living on-base? On and on and on until she erupted.

She was thirty and six months pregnant when someone finally stated the obvious: “You’re just like Prowl.”

The loner. The cold-hearted tactician. The Imp. Bastard. Friendless. When the Autobot Second in Command entered a room, it went quiet. Eyes dropped to the floor to avoid accidentally meeting him. Whispers wondered how someone as cheery as Jazz or Blue ever put up with him.

“Do you want that label?” Sal asked her.

“I don’t know that I see the resemblance,” her mother tried to assure, ruined by her mom’s knowing humph.

“I see it.” Jackie wasn’t afraid to anger her. Never had been. If anything, pushing buttons he’d been told to avoid was his favorite pass time. Hence his work in mechanics. “You can be a real downer. You think too hard about what other people think of you. No, better yet, you think too much about whether people think of you at all.”

Her brother didn’t fear her, so he didn't let up. He leveled her tears with the solid gaze he’d inherited from their mom. “No one hated you, Mel, when you were somebody’s clingy kid. No one likes a clingy adult. And you’re worse than clingy, you’re borderline obsessive. I mean, who spends their whole life chasing authority just so people you barely care about will know your name?”

Before she could chime in, Jackie kept going. “Don’t tell me it isn't like that like I haven’t lived with you most of our lives. You try too hard to be liked, to be seen. Let it go and let life happen, or you are going to be miserable.”

She was thirty when Mikala was born. On-base, in a random hallway because her daughter seemed determine to ruin all her careful plans at every opportunity.

While Sal gushed over this thing covered in fluids and wailing like a siren, Mel took a breath. Her brother’s words had angered her so a few months ago. Now, she closed her eyes, gathered her resolve, and let go of the idea of life she’d fallen in love with.

Her first gaze upon her daughter was one of immense strain and even sweeter relief.

“Hi, Mikala,” she greeted despite knowing the baby didn’t care what she said. The wiggles faded under her gentle touch. Little eyes scrunched up as her fingers traced tiny features simultaneously generic and oh so similar to Saleem’s. “I’m going to let go.”

“What?”

“Metaphorically, Sal.” Ignoring her poor husband’s exhaled panic, she continued making promises to a being too young to understand them. “I’ll never be settled, and it tears me apart knowing that. Be gentle with me. I’m still learning how to be okay.”

Heedless of the fluids staining the floor and their clothes, Sal knelt over her and the baby in her arms. He ran a hand over dark newborn hair. “She’s learning, too.” A kiss to her forehead had them both chuckling at how sweaty she was. “Don’t think I’m an expert in life either.”

There may have been more said in the afterglow of the moment, but Red Alert had commed Ratchet the moment she’d collapsed on the floor. The Autobot medic knew little about human anatomy aside from basic repairs, so he arrived equipped with no more than a curt “Are you bleeding out?” to temper his urgency.

She wasn’t. In fact, Mel gathered herself in Sal’s one free arm and walked mostly on her own into Ratchet’s cab.

“You’re just like Prowl,” Ratchet chuckled.

Ice stung her veins. Coupled with the exhaustion of an unmedicated birth she had not desired, emotions ruled her tone. “How so?”

“He’s not exactly adaptable,” Ratchet said as if any of them needed to know such common knowledge, “but he’s damn near indestructible.” A grumbled, “Getting up and walking after an emergence. The pair of you are insufferable,” sounded as fond as it was irritated.

“Indestructible.” The word tumbled heavily across her tongue. Perhaps her newfound aches and the screaming baby on her chest begged to differ, but the word tethered nicely to her being. “Insufferably indestructible.”

Chapter Text

Whenever he mentioned he worked with the med-crew, Jackie got one of three gasps: shock, awe, or pity. “The Hatchet’s domain?” Yeah, Ratchet worked in the medbay, genius. So did a bunch of other cool people, but what did anyone care?

“Doctors can’t really be friends with their patients,” First Aid had explained to him once after he’d ranted over Cliffjumper not knowing who Aid was. “It’s better this way.”

He didn't get it at the time. It was too easy to be casually friendly once ‘Bots figured out they didn’t need to commit to him to have his company. Brawn used him as an excuse to go joyriding. Gears he let rant to him. Blackjack and Smokescreen let him in on their perfectly-legal-seriously-though-don’t-tell-Prime “card games”. Camshaft told him stories of other dimensions he swore existed. Flash discovered kinship with the red shirts in Star Trek thanks to him hosting movie marathons.

And it was easy back when the only ‘Bots he’d ever helped repair were the low-risk cases. The only reason anyone was as happy as they were to sit under his scaffolding in the medbay and chat with him was just that. They got to chat about nothing, remember nothing, share nothing.

“I don’t, um, don’t have to be anything…right now,” Hubcap told him as Jackie welded up a gash on the mech’s forearm. “It’s nice.” Not being the butt of conspiracies. Jackie could fill in the gap.

He couldn’t fill in the empty space that used to be Hubcap’s sparkchamber. Or Flash’s throat. Or Camshaft’s head.

It’d been easier before he ever watched a frame grey while he frantically clenched fuel lines in the crook of his arm. While Hoist stepped back just to grab him and throw him onto a different patient to try to fix.

Easy but not as real.

“You know,” Crosscut droned once the credits to Die Hard started scrolling, “you’re the only medic who comes to these.”

‘Hide smacked him up-side the head. “Mech, Jackie took over hosting years ago.”

“That’s even weirder.” Gears huffed when the room looked at him. “What? It is. What kind of medic parties?”

“Ratchet used to.”

“Don’t tell lies, ‘Hide.”

Before the ‘Bots could start fighting, Jackie piped up. “I like hosting these. Gives me something fun to do that isn't just me rewiring you idiots.”

“And hanging out with that ‘Con spawn.” Though Ironhide shot Cliffjumper a dirty look, Mr. Napolean Complex didn’t let up. “He does, doesn’t he!”

Twenty-too-many jabs at his friend had him responding without much thought. “Talk about Tracks like that, and the next time you’re at my disposal, your mouth is getting welded shut.”

“Fragging mini-Hatchet.” That had been the last of Cliff’s comments, at least.

“It’s nice.” Hauler had stuck around to help him clean up after that marathon. In the same dreary voice so often complaining, he admitted, “I like knowing when I see you, I’ll have an okay time. In and out the medbay.”

It never got easier, seeing the lights fade from friends’ eyes. But the comfort obviously coloring them just before they darkened was real.

Trying to describe it to anyone else came out as a mess of words Jackie didn’t think he used correctly. “I don’t know how to say it,” he ground out when all Kaput did was squint at him with obvious confusion. “Don’t you like when your patients feel safe with you?”

“No.”

Kaput was probably the wrong person to talk about it with, but still, not even First Aid was willing to hear him out.

“I don’t want to make my life messier than it already is.” Understandable. “My patients report that I am disarming.” Very, very true. “That’s enough for me.” Doubtful what with the way Aid seemed to swoon whenever Trailbreaker looked at him.

Pointing this out to Aid, though, earned him a rare glare. “I definitely don’t do relationships with potential patients anymore.”

“Anymore?” Jackie had to ask.

He got a curt scoff in reply and a barked, “Ask Smokescreen.”

He did. Unfortunately, the idiot was five glasses in on Sideswipe’s latest brew by the time Jackie got around to asking him.

Smokescreen groaned deliriously as he tried not to fall over. “That was one time!” The littlest of pushes got him a long, drunken tale spun about a party and how similar some people’s color schemes were. “They looked the same! It was an honest mistake!”

Filling in the gaps, Jackie guessed, “You kissed someone else?”

Smokescreen’s face scrunched up. “I mean…yeah. But Cliff and Aid are the same…if you squint.” He had to heave to cycle his vents. “I swear, I regerted it when I woke up with him.”

“You slept with Cliffjumper?”

“I thought it was Aid!”

“Cliff’s half Aid’s size! How does that happen?”

Smokescreen babbling something and tripping on his own peds gave him all the answer he needed.

So, Aid wasn’t a good rep, either.

Jackie didn’t bother going to Ratchet. He knew better than to ask the widow about the distance between a medic and their peers.

Hoist was a much better option. “Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”

“Really?”

“Most definitely!” Hunched over an unconscious Brawn, Hoist had his face mask engaged to avoid venting on the wound in their patient’s side. Still, the mech’s smile was easy to read in his bright, happy eyes. “I’d learned in training to avoid making nice with our patients outside the medbay. We need to prevent favoritism, you see, and the creep of subjectivity should our own emotions emerge in our work.”

As he straightened to grab the welder from Jackie, his eyes turned whimsical. “But then I went and made a fool of myself at one-too-many social functions. Most of the friends I made back then have long since passed, but I would be lying if I said I would go back and change my ways. Those friends kept me sane just as much as my newer ones here do.” He paused to focus on beginning the weld before remarking, “Besides, without those friends, I never would have met Grapple. I don’t think I would still be here today without him.”

Once the repairs were over and their equipment cleaned, Jackie readily accepted the offered hand up to Hoist’s shoulder. “So, you think we should get our fellow medics out of the medbay once in a while?”

Hoist laughing had him clinging to the mech’s plating to keep from falling off. “Perhaps not. Not everyone is as social as you or me. Some prefer to cope with distance.” Calmed, Hoist canted his head to look Jackie over. “It’s nothing moral or immoral, child. Though, I wouldn’t disagree to a function or two just for us medics.”

It was easy as anything to plan something small. Made even easier by timing.

Holidays weren’t much of a thing on base. Which, as bummed as he’d been as a kid, made a lot of sense. One year for a ‘Bot was eighty-three Earth years, and even Jackie admitted hosting every human holiday eighty-three times in a year was insane. The schedule they’d made in the ‘80s worked out much better, according to Jazz.

Said mech was vibrating before Jackie finished pitching the idea and a medics-only get-together. Dude was chanting “yes” in at least two different languages by the time he asked for a date and budget.

“You cracked his code,” Prowl droned. Sitting (for once) at a table in the mess with Mel and his mother on the table next to him.

“What, partying? Yeah, I know, but this isn't the full holiday party thing. It’s just for the med-crew.”

“Doesn’t matter,” his mother chuckled and jerked her head at the jittery Jazz. “Better tell him he doesn’t get to plan it, or it’ll be done for you.”

That snapped Jazz out of his glee. “What?”

“Dude, I asked if I could.”

“He did.” Prowl groaned when Jazz gave him a pained look. “I sanctioned you ten different holiday events, don’t use that face on me.”

“Maybe Jackie can host his own and then I get—”

“Ten.”

“One more?”

“You have ten.”

“In his defense,” Mel chimed in, “this only happens every fifty years.”

Prowl frowned down at her. “1.66 times a year, our time. Jazz can be sated with ten.”

But Jazz was giving the four of them a wiry smile. “Eleven if you agree to—”

“We are not publicly bathing me.”

“No, babe, it’s just called a ‘shower’, we don’t got to drench you or nothing.”

Approval received, Jackie slipped out under the two’s bickering with a nod and a thumbs-up from his mother and sister.

They were in August right now, which meant he only had three months to plan this party, help plan one of the ten Jazz parties, and get the medical staff gifts. Not enough time at all. So, Jackie went to the one person he trusted about as much as family.

“I’m down,” Tracks said like a teen reluctantly excited. Which, yeah, Tracks was still technically a teen if Jackie thought about it. Didn’t matter seventeen years had passed since they met, his friend hadn’t really aged. Then again, neither had he. “On condition.”

Jackie hummed before his brain caught up with his ears. “The twins aren’t invited.”

“Figured that. I want to choose the tunes.” Tracks sneered at invisible enemies. “Those boobs don’t know rag if it paste them in the chin.”

Elevator jazz music it is, then. Jackie doubted the med-crew would mind. If anything, they could all use a relaxing time socializing rather than a rave. “Fine by me. I’m thinking we keep activities light, no elaborate games or anything. Maybe Jenga.”

Tracks pointed at him, red eyes bright with thought. “The fun Jenga!”

Jackie ‘oo’ed at that. “Truth or Dare Jenga? It just can’t be too over the top.”

“Set up the crowd?”

“No, Remedy used to have a drinking problem. You can ask Sides about mocktails, though.”

“Square,” Tracks huffed but sat up with interest. “What’s the venue?”

“Jazz gave me the break room in Wing Five for December twelfth through fifteenth. He’s hosting a SpecOps party in there starting on the sixteenth, so we can’t go too hard on decorations.”

“Bummer!”

“I know! But it’s fine, we can make do.” Jackie pulled out a tablet and, after scrolling through some notes on wing joints, showed Tracks the layout of the room. For hours, they poured over where to set up tables and chairs, what kinds of snacks they could find or make and display, and where they may need extra lighting options. “I want it to be warm,” he explained, pointing to the corners of the room, where he planned on installing low lamp lights. “And easy to get around, but you don’t have to feel like you have to stand up and walk around to socialize.”

The basic design settled on, they moved on to an equally important topic. “Please tell me to calm down on the gift giving.”

“Hey,” Tracks grinned, “chill it.”

“Thanks, because I’m really tempted to go all out.”

“I think the party itself is the gift.”

“Not all of them really like parties, though. A good gift would make sure they still have a good time.”

Tracks just shrugged at him. “I’ll make sure you don’t go overboard.”

That was all his friend could do for him in the gift department. So, Jackie shifted gears.

Most of his colleagues were surprisingly easy to shop for. Kaput liked practical things, so he was getting a robo-sized Swiss army knife. Remedy needed replacements to addiction, so a stamp collecting starter pack went to him. Fixit had a knack for being stressed, so to him went a pack of stress balls bundled up into one large one. Hoist loved candy, apparently, and came in a package deal with Grapple, so Jackie bought a paint-by-numbers kit for Grapple and asked Groove to make extra snacks for Hoist. He also asked Groove for ideas on what to get Aid, which led him to buying an audio series off Bulkhead of a bunch of Wrecker battle stories.

Down the list he went until the only name he hadn’t crossed off by the time November rolled around was Ratchet. For him, Jackie sought out the only ‘Bot who knew Rachet better than anyone else alive.

“Nothing.” When Jackie protested, Hot Rod snickered down at him. “I mean it. Get the old fart nothing. He hates getting gifts.”

Ultra Magnus may have nodded with the vacant look of a traumatized soldier, but Jackie wouldn’t stand for this. “I can’t just hand out stuff for everyone else but Ratchet.”

“Sure you can.” Hot Rod leaned against the side of the building, moving out of the way of the sun. Jackie had to shuffle back under the ‘Bot’s shadow to see Roddy’s shit-eating grin properly. “Legit, hand him an empty box, tell him ‘Merry Holiday’, and move on with your life.”

Whether the attitude came from a place of mischief or anger, Jackie couldn’t tell. Either way, he couldn’t shake how wrong the idea felt. “I’m not doing that. Give me some actual ideas or shut it.”

Roddy pushed off the wall—taking his shadow with him—to shift his weight from foot to foot. “I am being serious.”

Ultra Magnus winced. “It’s sometimes hard to tell, but he is.”

“See?” Roddy gave Magnus’s chest a fond tap. “All seriousness. He doesn’t want anything. Never has, never will. And if you do try to do something for him, he just gets all weird and huffy. Don’t even bother.”

For the life of him, Jackie could not figure out Roddy’s tone. “Are you mad at him for something?” When Roddy moved over, blocking the sun again, he revealed a strange glare. “Is it because my name is Jackie? I swear, Ratchet and I talked over that a long time ago—”

“Oh, no, it’s not that.” Roddy waved off the idea. “Ratchet’s just old, divorced, and emotionally constipated. He doesn’t know how to want things anymore or how to act when someone gives him things. It’s—he’s all fragged up. I’m serious, he’d rather an empty box.”

Of all the things to focus on, his mouth ran off with, “He was divorced?” before his brain thought better of it.

“Yeah.” Roddy shrugged. “When I was young and dumb, I thought reuniting him and Wheeljack was noble. Or—or whatever. It wasn’t. They should have stayed divorced.” He shook his head, moving to pace in front of Magnus. “Ratchet doesn’t know what to do when a good thing smacks him in the face. Don’t bother.”

Ultra Magnus nodded again, pretty insistently. If this towering pillar of reason agreed with Hot Rod, then Jackie supposed he should too.

Instead, he kept searching.

None of the Wreckers knew much else about Ratchet despite him being Wheeljack’s conjunx. Which…Jackie decided not to think over too much. Especially with what Roddy told him. He didn’t know if the time Wheeljack spent with the Wreckers lined up with the divorce or not, but he wasn’t going to risk finding out.

None of the High Command had any ideas. None seemed to know if Ratchet even had hobbies or interests in general. Not even fucking Jazz could give him a hint of what Ratchet did in his free time. Because, put rather bluntly by ‘Hide, he didn't have free time.

Sideswipe gave him the name of an egnex brew Ratchet really liked. Even if Jackie wanted to fuel his mentor’s alcoholism, Sides didn’t have the ingredients or time to brew it.

In a last-ditch effort, Jackie found Optimus Prime during one of the mech’s shift changes. As usual, just giving the big guy a defeated look earned him several hours of his time.

“I can’t give him nothing,” he ended with, looking up from Optimus’s lap for guidance. “I’m starting to think Ratchet really doesn’t have anything resembling a personal life.”

Optimus hummed, deep and rumbling like a storm hiding behind a mountain. “I’m afraid my friend has changed much over the course of his life. Hot Rod is right to say Ratchet does not know how to receive kindness, much less displays of affection.”

Jackie had to laugh. “Should we heed the wise words of Hot Rod and put that man in therapy?”

“I believe most of us require therapeutic intervention.”

“Do…do we have a therapist on base?”

Optimus frowned and looked off toward the desert horizon. “Smokescreen.”

“Ah. Nevermind. We need a therapist for our therapist.”

“To put it mildly, yes.” Heaving a long draw of dry air through his vents, Optimus refocused on him. “However noble your cause, Jackie—and I do commend your efforts—the effort itself is a present Ratchet will know how to receive. That you hold such gratitude for him is a monumental gift.”

It wasn’t easy, but Jackie nodded.

When the party finally rolled around, he stifled the icky feeling of seeing one-too-few presents on the table. It helped a little that no one except him got anyone anything, though. And while the rest of the med-crew sat in a small circle together to unwrap their gifts (or keep eating them, in Hoist’s case), Jackie motioned Ratchet aside.

Ratchet let out an exhausted puff of air as he sat and groaned as he bent over to grab Jackie. “What is it, kid?” he muttered after setting Jackie gently on his shoulder.

Jackie faked a cough. Looking dramatically both ways before reaching in his blazer pocket, he flicked out a folded up poster board with a flourish. He handed it over without looking. Ratchet took it, carefully minding their difference in joint integrity. He assumed Ratchet read it, but he couldn’t be sure since he refused to break the fun illusion of a heist.

Ratchet found a way to break it anyway. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“It says, ‘Look around’.”

“Well, you wrote ‘lok aronq.”

“That means ‘look around’ in dyslexia.”

“Oh,” Ratchet said quietly. “Forgot. Sorry.”

Giving up on the whole thing, Jackie turned back to Ratchet. The mech hadn’t looked up from the note. He wasn’t frowning or smiling or reacting much at all. Even Kaput had straightened out his scowl opening up his gift. “You hate it.”

“No, no,” Ratchet rushed out. “Just…” He cycled his vents, flipping the poster over. And finding the second note. “’Thank you’?” If it was also spelled wrong, Jackie didn’t know, and Ratchet didn’t point it out. “For what?”

“Just in general.”

“Oh.” Finally Ratchet looked up to see the rest of their colleagues enthusing over the things Jackie had gotten them and enjoying the assortment of colorful drinks and snacks. “I think we should be the ones thanking you. I know this means a lot. To them.” He motioned to the other medics.

“Right, yeah,” Jackie agreed, grinning. “To them.”

Ratchet hummed, so low and subtle the vibrations barely reached Jackie’s perch on his shoulder. The tiniest hint of a twitch of a corner of a mouth did more for Jackie’s soul than anyone else’s ‘thank you’s.

The proper, two-week-long, Jazz-hosted holiday party started on the first day of the new year. Supposedly, only the ‘Bots were responsible for gift giving, but Jackie didn’t let that stop him from picking up a few nicks and nacks for the Autobots he knew. His moms and sister had the same idea but different executions.

“When,” Prowl droned over the sound of Jackie’s family snickering at him, “in your short amount of time, did you manage to purchase an additional fifty-one gifts?”

Jackie just shrugged. “I see it, I buy it.”

His mom collected herself enough to point out, “And I guarantee you, each present is something hyper specific to that person,” with all the pride in the world.

“Do not expect much from me,” Mel added as she shifted pudgy little Mikala from one hip to the other. “Honestly, we started all our holiday shopping in December.”

While probably accurate (his niece was only a few months old, in his sister’s defense), this was misleading. Jackie went the whole first two days of the party thinking he’d get a Lowe’s gift card or something. On the third day when everyone sat around and exchanged presents, though, Mel handed him a massive box of deconstructed cardboard boxes and five thick things of duct tape.

He nearly cried.

“I know it isn't—”

“Shut it, I love it.” He shoved his sister (who was not, he checked, holding her baby) off the couch and replaced her with his new toys. “I can make so many models.”

Mel didn’t even kick him just smiled up at him from the floor where Mikala was happily bapping at the baby bop-it he’d made her.

Out of all the gifts, even his own, Mel won out for best present ever with Prowl’s.

“Oh, wait,” their mom paused to get her phone camera out and run over to Jazz’s waiting hand.

At her signal, a very concerned Prowl unwrapped a tiny package, glancing every now and then between Jazz and Mel. “What is it?”

Jazz couldn’t speak over his own giggles, neither could their mom, so Mel had to fake assurances. “It’s nothing bad, promise.”

If only to add to Prowl’s unease, Jackie held up his duct tape. “I doubt you’ll hate it.”

As expected, the mech’s scowl didn’t ease up. It only got stronger as he finally tore away the last of the wrapping. The magnet looked pretty small in his hand, but Jackie guessed it’d be about the size of his own human head. It clung to Prowl’s pointer finger like a good magnet should. That was how he, concern shifted to annoyance, showed it off to the rest of them.

Uncle JB was the first to wheeze followed shortly by TeTe. Muzhir tried his best to smile, but he couldn’t hide a laugh to save his life.

At least his mom had decent wit. “I think it’s practical.”

Jazz about died.

And not one reaction gave Jackie any clue what the magnet with an obnoxious yellow background and thick black type said. It looked from where he sat like a road sign. Maybe something cop related? Prowl did hate human cops despite being shaped and all like one.

“In what way is this practical?”

Mel recovered enough to give her excuse. “You’re starting to make the body, right? Pretty soon they won’t be a little orb anymore.”

Prowl did a great impression of cardboard. “And…I need to announce this?”

“That you have a baby on board, yeah.”

Oh, that’s what it was! His laugh came a little late, but who cared?

Mel walked back over to Sal and grabbed the present he held out for her, and she handed it off to Prowl. “That one was for laughs. This is your real present.”

It looked about the same size as the magnet. The first gift Prowl unloaded on Jazz while he hesitantly unwrapped second one.

Another magnet. This one had a meme Jackie recognized from old screenshots of tumblr: a painting of a wizard over an orb. Thankfully for him, Prowl read the text below out loud.

“’Behold the orb’?” Prowl huffed like he wanted to feel more annoyed than he did.

“This—” Mel had to heave passed a fit of laughter “—that’s for the time being.”

“Here, babe.” Jazz moved Navi to his other hand so he could reach over and take the new magnet. And attach it to Prowl’s chest. Right above his Autobot decal. “It can ride on your hood while this one—” he pressed the sign one on Prowl’s side before Prowl could protest “—goes there!”

“Perfect,” Navi agreed.

Prowl grumbled but didn’t take either off. If Jackie had to guess, that had everything to do with Mel being Prowl’s favorite.

Fortunately or unfortunately for Prowl (and the rest of the ‘Bots, honestly), Jackie had given out stickers and magnets to all the kids on base. By day five of the party, a pack of ten or thirty small children were running around holding stickers like blasters aimed at unsuspecting ‘Bots.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in a long while, dude,” Beachcomber managed to tell him between rounds of pin-the-magnet-on-the-geologist. Dude was coated in stickers and magnets. He held out a few that’d fallen off. “Any clue how to keep them on?”

Jackie shrugged, unable to quit smiling. “Glue?”

“Please,” Gears whined from across the room, “do not give the vermin that!”

“Man up.” Ironhide reached over to haul Gears up from the minibot’s hiding place on the ‘Bot’s sofa. ‘Hide also had a wonderful selection of stickers and even some finger paint wrapped around the bottom of his peds like slippers. “You’s only gunna get them this cute for a minute. Don’t waste it complaining.”

By day seven, Jackie came to the party armed with a pack of a hundred car magnets. Beachcomber took several before any of the humans (kids and adults) got to him. No ‘Bot was safe now.

“I’d get used to it if I were you.”

Jackie turned just enough to glimpse his mom standing on Jazz’s shoulder as she and he spoke to Prowl. They had to yell to be heard above Blaster’s music set, which was probably why Jackie could hear them at all.

Prowl’s scowl twisted into what Mel had sworn was a smile. “Do you intend to gift my creation car decals?”

Though Jazz snickered, Navi matched Prowl’s maybe-smile with a smirk. “You don’t know what you’re inheriting from me.”

That cut off Jazz’s joy. Whatever the mech said was too quiet for Jackie to hear.

Which, he decided, was better than knowing more than he already did. His moms were both in their sixties, now, one retired and one refusing to just yet. Neither would see another of Jazz’s holiday parties. God willing, Jackie and his sister and their little group would.

But who was he kidding?

He looked away from difficult things to see Redford being chatted at by Naila and hanging on to every word she said. Jackie couldn’t wait to be next on her list, to hear about what life as an attorney has been like. As swamped as he’d been in the medbay and Ford with the science crew, neither of them had really visited with her since she began floating between D.C. and the base. Not as often as Saleem and Mel had, at least. Who he hadn’t really visited with, either, since they had Mikala.

All of which made all the sense. Their friend group was growing older just as their parents’ was. Life wasn’t getting any easier. But, he had to admit, being on a time crunch certainly made it feel real.

Smiling, he got up and made a point to talk to every single partygoer before the day was up.