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Chapter Text

Nothing stays dead on that planet.

The curious thing about the bloody planet was, I discovered, this bugger called the cycle of life. See, on Cybertron when you're dead you tend to go to the Well of All Sparks. Or the Pit; we're not picky about either. Humans, they got a lot of religious concepts, but the oddest one that none of us really found time to comprehend was reincarnation. I mean, why recycle a perfectly good spark? Death comes to all in the end, and the Well could be way more interesting than orn-ly life anywhere in the living universe.

Well, I was ripped apart in battle. It was Megatron, but still... on hindsight, the war had been terrible on everyone concerned. He let go of me, I fell, and I heard a scream-

We won, or else the giant med-bay I awoke in would not be standing still. And, when I realised that I was somehow fitting in a med-bay meant for humans... I raised my servos, to be greeted with the fleshy stubs of human fingers and be smacked in the face with my current state of mortality.

“Oh, you're awake,” a femme human in a baggy dress of some white textile and the hair on her head done up neatly poked her head in. “Quite terrible, was it? How are you, girl? Do you have medical insurance?”

“I'm fine,” I automatically replied, and for the first time I realised that I was watching this remotely; there was no way to interrupt this, as if I was a program in the background of this human's processing system.

Wait, what was I doing in this human? A female, at that? Slag! What happened?!

“Yes, I have medical insurance,” the... host, I guess, was saying. “Excuse me, but did I come in with a violin case?”

“Oh, yes,” the nurse nodded, pointing to the bedside. “It's right there. I'll call the doctor.”

“Please, no need,” I felt the muscles in the face- my face stretch, which by the way is odd. “I feel fine, just a bit of rest is needed. I'm sure the doctors are busy with the rest in the ER.”

“Oh, um...” the nurse stared, blinking before nodding. “I'll just... bring you some painkillers?”

“Thank you,” the other intelligence replied, grabbing the green textile-covered case before flicking a couple of clasps to take out an hourglass-shaped piece of wood with strings, and a flat stick. Inside the case lining revealed a bunch of white hair that the hands on the organic pulled out. She then picked up the wood, and I realised then that there were strings on it, that she plucked at to make sounds.

“What is that?” I spoke. Well, not really spoke as much as mouthed, without hearing anything.

She stopped. Could she...?

'Hi, whazzup?' I tested.

After a while, she plucked a string. She said nothing, but she plucked another string, before twisting a knob to tighten it and plucked it again for a higher note.

Here there is a Cybertronian word meaning stuck between the Pit and open space without armour. First I was in a ridiculously fragile organic shell, next I had no idea where was my body, or if it was viable after what happened to it. Why me? Wait, I dropped on her, and-

She was fiddling with a small bead on the steel string as I cursed the Decepticreeps again. She strung the white hair onto the bow, and applied some dry stuff onto the stick in long strokes. Her- no, my hands lifted the bowed wood to the stringed instruments. Somehow, the music produced made me pause, made me listen, and made me dream.

Patiently, slowly, from the heart of the strings itself came the most silvery of sounds, along with a gentle hum from her- my- our larynx.  Lacrimosa dies illa...

The song reminded me of the Autobot SIC. Prowl was dependable, if anything else could be expected of the mech responsible for some of the more colourful personalities amongst the Autobots. A lot like him...

 
Lacrimosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla...
Judicandus homo reus...
Huic ergo parce, Deus.
Pie Jesu Domine...
Dona eis requiem...
Amen.
 

I wonder if he's still alive, somewhere amongst the stars.

'Hello? Oi, human!'

She ignored me. Maybe humans were versed in ignoring their comms systems? Wait, organic humans did not have any internal comms-

“Okay,” she huffed. “I presume you're the giant that fell on me about... two hours ago. Also, from your current state, you're clearly not in a position to demand anything, and you haven't found out my name, if you're not searching through my memories, which indicate a separation of identity. Since we're technically sharing the same body currently, and nothing short of divine prayer or an intervention out of science fiction could separate us, I would require a name, appellation, designation, or anything you call yourself before we hash out the situation.”

Definitely the Autobot SIC. 'Erm... Jazz, first lieutenant. I'm an autonomous robotic organism from the planet Cybertron. Call me an Autobot for short.'

Actually... am I Jazz of the Autobots, or am I a human being? Did it matter, as long as I could hear the music again?

“Jazz,” she sighed. “My name is Dahlia Su. The moment we are out of this hospital, you are going to give me a very long explanation.”

'Right... play some more music, will ya? I won' do anything.'

My... host, Dahlia, snorted; it was a weird feeling of en-venting and ex-venting through the olfactory sensor on her face. She did pick the instrument back up, and played another ditty that she would later call 'Amazing Grace'. I swooned in her head; the experience was somewhat near religious.

“If this is your reaction to a violin, I wonder how you'll react to a piano,” she commented once she set the violin down, and I felt a touch of regret. My love of the violin must run second to how I felt for... many things.

Until she found it in the hospital, and started playing, and I started a long affair with the Earth instrument called the pianoforte.

Prime and Prowl would just have to understand if I delayed a bit. After all, I was stuck here, right?

Chapter Text

The moment we got out of the human med-bay, Dahlia took herself to the edge of a human dwelling and sat by its roof's edge. It was positioned in a way that she could go over and fall splat, and the breeze buffeting her did not help a bit. I think I saw this in one of Ratchet's infographics, when we still thought humans were violent and cruel.

The humans got a saying; a pot, a kettle and accusations of sootiness were involved. But none of the crockery seemed as mad as this femme determined to terminate her own life after walking in proximity of Megatron. Shouldn't she be thankful to have survived?

'I think you should get down,' I commented. 'That looks mighty dangerous, Dahlia.'

“Exactly,” she replied. “I don't know about you, but humans on a whole don't tend to have voices in their heads. And I don't know where you kept your brain. Now, I would require you to explain fully the circumstances behind our... accident. Or else I will assume the worst, that you are a hostile alien presence, and thus throw myself over, shattering every bone in this body and render it useless, possibly killing the both of us.”

Gulp.

The thing about the Autobot chief tactician was that, when he was on a roll, you did not argue with him. Period. Some plans were improvised on the fly, which was great and all, but the plans when he was well and truly slagged off at the 'Cons tend to mean ridiculous enemy casualties and humiliation all around. And this femme that reminded me so much of him... some humans scare me with their sheer recklessness. I told her everything; about the Allspark, the circs around a kid, and the eventual battle where we met.

And Dahlia did not move from the roof at all. She waited, the sun appeared as a disk that was sinking over the horizon, and it was burnished a half-disc of orange-yellow in its sunset when she finally spoke: “So, when Megatron ripped you apart and threw you down, and I came into impact with it, somehow it ended up with you with me, inside my consciousness. And you're a supposedly autonomous robotic organism, you say? A giant alien... a giant cybernetic alien. Very high-tech.”

'Yep.'

“A...” she paused. “Ghost in the machine?”

'Oi, we're sentient,' I scowled. 'But yeah, I guess you can say that's me.'

Dahlia exhaled. “I am currently fitted with a programmable artificial cardiac pacemaker due to my heart condition. Given the assumption that your spark is a form of... source code, is there any possible way that you could have... uploaded yourself?”

'Dunno. We'll have to test that hypothesis.'

“I have a few other questions,” she commented, swinging her legs in a silent threat. “Most involve some form of simple experimentation, but... Do you have any idea to contact your superiors? How long would it take? I have to go to the New Orleans Jazz Festival.”

'Last I heard...' I paused, thinking about poor 'Bee and the human government's agents. At least Dahlia was halfway decent, but even she was only one gal against a lot of squishy. 'No.'

“Wi-Fi? Radio?”

'Not like this.'

Our comms were mostly internal. External comms were pretty novel an experience, especially the human version of an electronic communication interface. Now would have been a good time to sift through the ways of human radio communications.

“Occam's Razor was thrown out with the giant cybernetic aliens, hence Arkham's Razor is the rule,” Dahlia muttered aloud to herself, still holding me hostage by proxy. “Not even a contact number?”

There was the human who bought 'Bee, but that was still a long shot, especially since I had no idea where the slag Tranquillity was in relation to Mission City. The 'Cons were still around. Plus, in this extra-vulnerable meat-sack, I realised that I was possibly declared KIA. No connection, no others around, no fragging way to contact Prime and company without human government agents or 'Cons appearing, no weapons, no armour, not even a slagging chip in sight. Just one rather distrusting human host who's giving me a threat of suicide-

I stopped. 'Why are you threatening me with your suicide?'

“We're a sharing a body,” Dahlia informed me. “I concluded that there was a high chance that you could gain permanent control of my body, and thus kill me, if you were so intended.”

'I didn't even know that was fragging possible!'

“We are sharing the same... hardware, if we must use that word,” the corners of the mouth pulled down. “Possibly, you are using my nervous, limbic and cerebral systems to communicate so clearly. I'm not exactly sure how, given the current hypothesis that your... spark... soul is in my pacemaker unit, which is nowhere near my head.”

'And so you concluded that I could be hostile to you, and decided to keep me back now.'

“At least until I could have a full conversation and get some answers,” Dahlia agreed with me. “There's a human axiom: 'Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.'”

Either I found myself a deeply paranoid human, or human culture basically teaches its members to assume that any strange species was out to get them. Given how some humans considered each other with deep suspicion, maybe it was some biological thing. That permanent link to the human's global information network would be nice about now. How did anyone survive without knowing anything at any time?

Something rumbled. It gnawed at the middle of the organic body. I would have taken offence if it weren't just one of the many inconveniences of feeling in a human body; sweating, sticky, light-headed and all that jazz, but this sensation felt like the king of all pains. Ha. 'The frag?'

“Ah,” Dahlia commented, her voice rasping. Come to think of it, the voice-box felt like someone took sandpaper to it. “That would be the hunger. And thirst. Humans feel that all the time.”

Do they? Well... frag me.

Dahlia finally got the shared body off the roof and into a refuelling place, I guess. There were the golden arches that threatened to overtake the human economy and everything, and the food was...

I got no basis of comparison, but now the sheer variety, plus the human tendency to riot when faced with food shortage, seemed more explicable. Refuelling was not a pleasurable process for us; at least, not one where any necessary enjoyment beyond the obvious was gotten. The humans, they come in around us, they get their orders, maybe they sit together and chat and linger in a leisurely way that none of us remember, not even in Cybertron. It's fast food, or their version of fast fuel; there was that flavour, that pop from the brown liquid carrying the red and black brand, some... intense flavour-

'What is that?'

My optics, or her eyeballs, strained in an upward direction. A few moments of silence before she sighed. “I suppose my hypothesis is right. This is food. Actually, it's a burger and a Coke.”

'No, that feeling! That... popping around the denta! Around the lip plates!'

Dahlia, my main gal, finally cottoned on at last. “Later.”

“It's the sense of taste,” she finally explained once the yellow strips of potato dipped in the red sauce with the intense sense were finished and she was walking. “All humans have five basic senses; sight, hearing, touch, taste, smell. Some have more, some have less, but these five are our... receptors? Ways of getting information around us? And taste is the primary sense employed with smell to sense food. Like crispy chicken, chilli sauce, and carbonated sweet drinks.”

Chicken: a type of bird domesticated by the humans for their eggs and meat. Chilli sauce: a sauce distilled from concentrate of chillies, a type of Earth spice. Carbonated drink... who the slag thought drinking acid was a good idea?

Dahlia stopped suddenly from crossing the road, and I was about to ask why when the vehicle just passed by at top speed. A breeze tickled my- her- our hair, our lungs froze, and I could not help but twitch and hope that Dahlia heart was still beating. It was; apparently her hypothesis was airtight.

I was in the female's medical unit. But humans could replace hearts; Ratchet had been very curious about that organ transplanting thing, to a rather morbid extent. So why...?

'How do you fragging live like this?!'

“You're feeling it now,” she said. “Our mortality.”

Chapter Text

Back in pre-war Cybertron – and I feel old, just thinking about it – many vorns ago, there was minimal public transportation. We could damn well fly, or transform and drive; why waste time building infrastructure that no Cybertronian would use, not when a vehicle was inbuilt? Sure, the humans made some sweet rims, but it was a reminder of their weakness, and their cowardice born from its. Sure, they cannibalised Megatron, but a lot of the early tech was still human-made and human-designed; the fact that they achieved so much unassisted left only the imagination to determine how they would succeed.

Commercial flight was one such miracle. Even the fact that I was in a fragile fleshy shell, in the circuitry keeping this woman alive, and the fact that I was experiencing things through the admittedly limited senses of humanity left me awestruck when the aerial transport – aeroplane, she corrected – took off. I could hear and feel nothing, but I could see out of the really tiny glass-covered windows with a vacuum space between them.

The blues and greens of planet Earth left me awestruck, since the view last planet-fall was admittedly limited by me not being able to look around last time. Such was the nature of the planet-

The transport started shaking. The PA system crackled, and the pilot started blabbing about turbulence and such. The body I was in remained relaxed, composed, elegant. Occasionally she got up and stretched, like those weird exercises she went through in the early morning, but far more constrained. But we – Dahlia and I – got to New Orleans...

… jazz heaven. So this must be what the Well of All Sparks must be like. A city of flattened fifths and that swing rhythm and saxophones... oh, sa-xay-phones-

I wouldn't mind living next to the bayou all the time if they'll just continue playing it up. Why couldn't she live there? I was complaining to my only listener, who took it with a sort of patience that was definitely channelling either Prime or Prowl as she rosined her bow and tested it. Again.

Dahlia Su – full name Dahlia Su Daji: “Because I had to have one name easy to spell,” was her defence – lived in a tiny box-like dwelling in the human city of San Francisco, on the opposite side of jazz heaven with regards to spatial positioning on the United States of America. There was a lot of stringed instruments, which had gained my respect for the silvery sounds. There was a standing piano – in sharp contrast to the jazzy grand pianos – in one corner, next to the black desktop that Dahlia was seated at typing away at a simple keyboard days after the Mission City mess, waiting for the sun to rise. The curse of being stuck with an early riser.

“From watching to control must be a phase,” Dahlia speculated, sifting through the human search engine called Google for sightings of giant aliens,, haunted cars, Mission City, etcetera. “I wonder if your spark is provided with the necessary source code to adapt the body to survive. After all, from what you described of Cybertronian anatomy at its protoform, most Cybertronians follow a basic blueprint and nearly identical hardware despite the given size and shape differences.”

My attention was not in the long screen of words on the visual interface, but rather the strange instruments left on top of the vertical piano next to the stack of blank ruled paper with printed musical staves. 'First time I've seen stringed drums,' I commented.

“Those are erhu. Focus,” she hissed, rifling through some more pages before finally clicking the web browser closed.

Up we went, and we grabbed the instrument called an erhu. It made similar, but high-pitched silvery sounds as well. Feeling the hands manipulate it cleverly, teasing out music that no Cybertronian would ever have heard in a hundred thousand decavorns, made me reflect that, despite all my singing talent, I had never composed as Dahlia managed.

Yeah, the Jazzmeister had never written a bar in his life, and didn't quite get how the rhythm of the universe could play so easily and hypnotically.

Experimentally, Dahlia strung a few notes together. They were refined a bit more, following no sheets, but were improvised on the spot using the instrument. Perhaps I could feel her thinking process, hideously set close to mine, and with it a steady, constant beat of life and the sense of knowing it.

The silver stopped ringing. Dahlia toyed with the bow on one hand. Outside, the sun shone.

Dahlia rose, went to her washroom and got changed.

“I don't suppose you can see me?” Dahlia asked, pulling out a mess of textiles from a cupboard.

'I see what you see, honest.' In her case, I saw a woman with epicanthic folds in her eyes, a fair tone of skin, and dark hair that was being held up by a hair-stick. It made her look like any other human, if not for the personality behind it.

“Might be interesting,” she considered, biting our lower lip. “So many applications. I have a few thoughts about getting into contact with your... compatriots. Only, we may have some problems.”

'What?'

The piece of flesh-textile underwear she called a bra – with no small amount of embarrassment – came off with a click. It was weird, like letting go of a rope around the chassis, only for a couple of soft weights to drop from it. The crawling sensation over that part of the skin did not help either. “First, assuming that alien interaction is known to the government, I can expect... a terrible visitor. I would rather not have xenophobic agents crash in with a legal excuse to disrupt the right of an American citizen, especially one of a minority.”

I mulled over the decision. It was a cautious, tactical decision. It was very like Prowl for my comfort. 'Got that. You want no way to connect this to you.'

“Number two,” she continued, pulling her legs out of those scraps of delicate textiles explained as lace. “is the possibility of being taken in by your kind. No offence, but I would rather approach the topic on my terms.”

'And you want a rights guarantee? How about sovereignty over Cybertron instead?'

By the way, I'm sorry, Cybertron; while you may lead in technological advancements and metallurgy and whatnot, human textiles won. And I recalled the building, and the fact that she was willing to terminate herself and me with her was, frankly, way chilling.

“While your offer is appreciated, I don't think you have the right to hand over your dead planet like that, if your description of serving as first lieutenant during our little rehash is anything to go by,” she snapped back. “You can't bargain with something you don't have. Bad business.”

'Hmm...' I pondered this as she made the cotton slide over our skin, and it felt pretty comfy. For a human, my main gal Dahlia was really unselfconscious compared to the young humans from before all Pit broke loose. 'You're an oddball of a human being, but I don't really know. Anyway, we need to find Prime, find a surgeon, get me cut out...'

“Have you realised the possible implications of being integrated into my nervous, cardiovascular, and sensory systems?” Dahlia cut across. “To effect such a permanent change might mean that in order for us to fully separate, we would have to take apart my entire nervous system.”

Smart human. If only she was less fatalistic. 'Well, it's worth the try, right? I get out of your head, we go separate ways...'

“Three,” she added, “the so-called Decepticons. I have no information on them, but extrapolation on the basis of human civil wars lead me to conclude that I would be targeted no matter what, for aiding you even by accident.”

Yeah, and that was the sticking point. For all that I was effectively dead, I might as well be when stuck to a human body.

“And, I have the feeling that a few humans might be working with the Decepticons,” Dahlia blithely continued.

'Say... what? A few humans might be working with the Decepticons?' I echoed. Decepticons, working with the fleshies they themselves looked down upon?

“I have excellent ability in visualisation,” Dahlia shrugged. “Your description of the one called Megatron and Starscream leads me to conclude that they took a safer, more tactical approach towards the local sentient population, and that additionally, they had the wherewithal to blend into human population. During that time, do you really think that no one would take the chance to grab an unwitting pawn or two? It's the most logical choice, given that, despite any insistences of your ability to blend in, certain things require an actual human to explain. Take for example; if you woke up in my body alone in the hospital with no idea how to blend into human society, what do you think would happen?”

It was unfortunately rational. Also unfortunately fatalistic, and not all good for the Jazzmeister. Finding the others was a priority, but I could afford to lay low, bargain for options. It was the least I could do, to ensure that Dahlia managed to survive this and disappear afterwards. It was the most responsible choice.

I did not like the choice. It did not equate to a lack of respect for Dahlia, for carving out that choice.

She put on a T-shirt, loose drawstring pants – that one required a bit of explanation – and grabbed a bag with a vessel of water. “I don't even know where to begin. I don't want to be locked up.”

The human concept of an asylum had been brought up in several repetitions of the argument of contacting the human government. Drugs, straitjackets, and screams also made their appearance. Somehow, the self-centred nature of humanity was frightening, in a way that had nothing to do with their status as sentient beings and everything to do with cornered multi-cellular organisms.

I kept mulling this as Dahlia went through the motions of forms, what she called taijiquan and I thought of as Circuit-Su. The sentients of this backwater planet were young, and the first time I saw planetary organic life portrayed as anything other than rational and logical beings. On one hand, I'm probably hidden from any Cybertronian within about six billion people. On the other hand, I was being hidden from my own kind within about six billion extraterrestrials. The most rational choice would be to contact their government, but the human Sector Seven and Dahlia's disapproval of the government, at least here, made that prospect... a bit wonky (Thank you, human television, for providing new though technically incorrect terms in moments of inanity).

Dahlia's life was... a bit boring. The fact that I was in a pacemaker, a human medical device, also implied that something defective with this body, and made it a walking time bomb. On the other hand... music. Perfect music, made despite the fragility of this bag of bones and flesh and other organic things.

Dahlia finished her exercise in the square of green organics called a park, went home, and downed her pills before pottering about her day composing bars of music.

It left me to reflect, occupying myself in what the humans called a brown study, back when the humans' information network was still accessible in my head. I would never take for granted constant comm access now, and amongst other things, the relative durability of my old body. I had hated those pills at first sight, and I continued to hate them as I hated the planet's weather, as I detested Dahlia's fatigues as much as I envied her ability to make music. They were a reliance, a reminder every orbital cycle of human weakness... and the cowardice from it made so much more sense.

What must a Cybertronian be to them? A monster of metal and technology; a ghost capable of infiltrating their electronic archives and wrecking havoc upon invisible worlds of data streams that their civilisations relied upon so much now; a great protector that they must pay tribute in metal and energy? Who could self-repair from all but the most fatal injuries, and if needed could revive again and again?

I felt ashamed that I could consider my own kind monsters. Yet I felt that it was true. Autobot and Decepticon alike... we must be monsters to those of this blue planet of organics, dirt and caprice. Each and every day felt, not like the order of Autobot life or the regiment of Cybertronian pre-war daily routine, but... a gamble. The greatest gamble; the stakes being the right to live past the weakness and the hunger and the weather and everything tossed at them with their limited mastery of their environment... and now this.

Small wonder they hadn't terminated each other.

Of course, the human I was attached to did not lack social networks. No, outside of work, Dahlia must have one of the largest social circles in the known world; the world of tabletop gaming. Amongst the mountain of instruments in the apartment were hidden the gems of human lawyering. It marked my first experience of tabletop gaming. Or the concept where humans mounted a war campaign with their limited mythical abilities against a ruling deity of an imaginary world, that not only controls the actions of most of the populace, but also the flow of events, the settings, enemy troop strength, the resolution of conflict situations, and overall organisation, and the humans sometimes won. I was a little fuzzy on both. It was crazy awesome, especially when the group of humans pulled out a special card game. Such as-

“Lose to level 1 Goldfish,” Dahlia announced for the last round of the card game with its cheating rules. “Everyone gets to mock you.”

It was the middle of another game, and there was the check... and then the enemy wizard pulls out a rocket launcher.

“That's not fair!” a blond guy shouted. “My Einzbern character's still checking!”

“Universal Genre Savvy Guide, subsection If I am Ever Head of an Alien Monitoring Agency, Foundational Principle 3,” Dahlia ruled. “'The boundary between Exotic Science and Magic, and between a Sufficiently Advanced Alien and a God is shaky enough at the best of times, and—although I will try to explain events scientifically and look for rational explanations—saying that I have Outgrown Such Silly Superstitions is just asking to be caught with my pants down by a sudden Genre Shift.' Overruled, Einzbern.”

Einzbern, real name Artie, scowled and tipped his Paladin character piece over. It left Dahlia, the Nepali guy with a Cleric character called Father Ted, a thief referred to as Shadow, and the Game Master in the dungeon, about to face the terrible dragon Smug.

“Explosive check,” Dahlia rolled the dice. “D20. I surround the evil priest using Shadow's previous Hide Ally cast. Bard's power of Charm previously allowed me to purchase an entire supply of saltpetre, which I had converted into low-energy explosive laden with shattered glass. I place these explosive all around, and use the Coordination Ring on the explosive to create a simultaneous explosion. Rolling, ten and above-”

She dropped her dice, which hit eleven. “Father Ted, check Divine Intervention.”

“Calculating bonuses, with Hide Ally and Divine Intervention, helped with Death of the Martyr granted by Einzbern being kicked off the board...” the dice dropped for a six. “We're clear.”

The Game Master groaned. “Dammit... the explosions go off, along with the rocket launcher, impaling and destroying the evil wizard and his enslaved familiar with enough explosives to bankrupt Michael Bay, collapsing the cave upon them with extreme prejudice. Dahlia, Shane and Aadi wins. Better luck, Jimmy.”

“It's Einzbern!” Jimmy complained. “I would've won with my Sabre of High Command!”

The entire table broke out in laughter. The Sabre of High Command, which had been shattered way back in the dungeon... sure. Right.

Dahlia sighed as I broke out in laughter, possibly at Jimmy too. I know everyone was laughing. So was Dahlia. Probably. It marked a relatively relaxed part of my current life inside a human's body not spent worrying about it breaking down.

Chapter Text

“We should get out and explore,” Dahlia commented as her hand flipped a coin up and down a few days of no commentary other than my slow extension of senses. For those interested in the experience of the feminine orgasm, please turn elsewhere, for Dahlia had firmly set me out. “For the sake of the narrative, if anything else.”

“Aren't we experimenting already?” I pointed out as the coin made a back-flip on our palm. “This is a handy trick. And you wanted to keep a low profile first.”

“Given that I don't exactly trust you, this is the exact thing we should have avoided,” Dahlia commented, as the coin returned from our palm to the edge of our fingers, as her other hand scribbled out a bar of notes. Since it was our left hand, essentially the body was playing a duet.

“One would think,” Dahlia's voice issued out from our shared mouth, “that motor control would come to the right side of the body first.”

“Yes,” I rebutted with her voice, “well, it's a bit like that Crowley fellow.”

“You've been going on about Crowley since you read the book,” Dahlia sighed. “Be careful with my body. It's ridiculously fragile compared to anything else you have, even if alien nanites are currently bleeding through my bloodstream to fix it.”

“Anything I have is currently yours,” I answered, flipping the coin straight up and letting it fall onto the table. “Let's rehash what we know, and what we have to do.”

“We know that your people are working together with the US government to take down Decepticons,” Dahlia dutifully ticked off. “We also know that they're covert ops, if the faulty gas-line excuse is anything to go by. Personally, I'd just post blurry pictures on the Internet and be done with it. What it does mean, however, is that they have a means of tracking Decepticons, and by extension Cybertronians. We have possible location spots for Decepticon lairs. Are you sure we don't have any human contacts?”

“Last I checked, the human male was under eighteen,” I replied. “And the other female has a juvenile record.”

“Yes, the infamous Sam Witwicky and Mikaela Banes,” Dahlia used our eyes to consider the frankly illegal dossier we stole from the local war ministry. Oh wait, defence department. Mispronouncing the name five times had garnered some grudge for it. She had complained that only robots and similar organisms could pronounce the name correctly on the first try. “Not a good idea, involving minors in this. Right, so what can we do?”

“We have my mad skillz,” I deliberately mispronounced the word, sticking out my tongue to the lacquered table surface. “And your gaming skills, but I don't know if we can RP our way back to Autobot central, wherever it is. And I'm not keen to try out cardiac arrest again. It's not fun.”

To be honest, it felt like ripping a spark out, and considering that humans could and have survived them made me find new respect for their species on a whole.

On the other hand, we did establish quite firmly that I was in her pacemaker. Very painfully, and very firmly. And that was a fake heart attack.

I cursed as the coin dropped. For all the manual dexterity and grace in her fingers from the piano, and the form of her body from that human Circuit-Su, it was clear that Dahlia had hardly ever fought for her life. This was a body soft in peacetime, and should not have to be hardened except by choice, and Dahlia had not chosen to fight. She probably couldn't make the cut by her health anyway, but the fact remained that the soft human body was not easily repairable like my old metal one.

“We need to get to the Autobots before your government gets wind of it, possibly breaking some laws along the way,” I cautiously commented.

“Ideally, we can turn up at one of these Decepticon spots and find your friends,”Dahlia shrugged. “It's not like they're going to roll out a whole convoy for one Decepticon.”

“I really don't think this is a good idea,” Dahlia had commented when the suspected building that was scheduled for demolition came into view.

“It's the only thing we got to go on,” I commented in answer.

“What about me?”

“What about you?” I rebutted. “This is our only chance to get to the Autobots!”

“And the Decepticons?”

“We'll leave it to them and their convoy.”

Them , whoever the eponymous identities were, did not bring a convoy. They did not even appear . The slagging 'Con, however reluctantly, did.

Long story short: we had rented a car, driving from the Fog City to this backwater part of Arizona to find the 'Con, armed with mainly a Taser. We'd found the abandoned building where weird accidents happened, and a Geiger counter Dahlia had bartered for beeped. The lone foreman on site had been the 'Con, and it hadn't been happy, and Dahlia probably would have made the sequence of events into a slagging epic poem or something in dactylic hexameter or something, but I'm the one telling it!

Hence, our impromptu escape with any and all things that we found.

Dahlia's footsteps pounded as she ran down a derelict hallway, flinging bottles left and right that smashed, releasing their liquid contents on walls and floors. “I really should look into death by genre savviness...”

She paused, doubled back, and grabbed the fire extinguisher by breaking the plastic tie that held it there, checking along her belt for the glass bottle hanging there.

“Screw you, screw that, and screw him!” Dahlia tossed the lit home-made smoke bomb. Earth videos are a scary, scary thing, even if this game called NERF was present to facilitate it.

Eventually, Dahlia skidded to a stop when the red optics of a – thankfully small – 'Con flickered by, invisible once more as we sidestepped and backed behind into a side hallway.

“Where are you, fleshy?” it growled, advancing with crunches of broken glass and everything, even the goop of liquid gasoline and the acrid smell of it burned at our nose. It sounded like a wood chipper in a sea of gasoline. That... sounded like bad news. For it.

“It works, or we fix it for free,” Dahlia commented, lighting the cloth stuffed in the last bottle before flinging it there. As predicted, the 'Con batted it away, and the fiery projectile lit the whole hallway into a blaze as the 'Con flickered, its phase generator unable to compensate for the heat.

Dahlia stepped forward, and loosed the fire extinguisher into its optics. She brought the red canister down on its helm next. The canister was dented, knocked from her hands when she let it go, to bring up the Taser, right into its spark. Pain shot up our arm- my arm, and I disregarded it to help her keep the electrical weapon there. She lashed out, right to tear into its weak spot, the spark-

“Fleshy scum,” the 'Con brought its claw down, breaking our shoulder with its scream of rage. Not even the courtesy to keep up the banter.

“Haaa!” Dahlia shifted as the 'Con was about to strike, the forms of Decepticon momentum, human Circuit-Su, and the boiling cocktail desperation in my- her- our body allowing the relatively weak human to fling a Decepticon over her shoulder and rip out its spark.

I didn't know that human martial arts could do that.

Sounds, like 'pop-pop' rang loose, loosely like bullets, rang out. Grimly, Dahlia crushed the spark chamber under her foot, arcs of energy and delicately strong circuitry so much under a rubber shoes called a Croc, nearly melting from the building heat of the hallway. “Then, you are no longer a sentient being.”

A bell started ringing, and soon sprinklers engaged to flood the hallway with foetid water. The fire extinguisher was let loose on the hallway, setting up an ultimately futile effort as Dahlia took the remnants of the spark chamber out with her.

Neither of us paid it any mind, more devoted to the small spark-chamber and whatever circuitry we'd managed to salvage before the heat got too much. Neither of us spoke until we got back into the rental car, heaving huge gulps of sweet, clean Earth air. The door thudded closed, and the locks clicked into place with the touch of a button.

Dahlia reached for the paper bag by the side. I had no idea why until we threw up, the sour bile curdling on the tongue even as the waste was set aside and we drank deeply from the bottle of water inside, leaning back into the car seat.

Then Dahlia sighed, and the exhaustion of her- our body was overwhelming. “I don't suppose we could build a... something out of what we cannibalised? Going through the whole rigmarole again will be tiring.”

I considered. We'd been too damn lucky, and cut it too damned close. Spec-Ops operative, hah! I'd forgotten the weaknesses of the human body, no matter how much of a hidden ass-kicker my main gal is. “Maybe... there's another way of getting into contact.”

“Good. Because I think we're going into cardiac arrest soon.”

I immediately let go to focus on the electrical conduction system. “Say so earlier!”

Human tools were rudimentary, sure. They were also sufficient for building a Cybertronian-tuned radio out of a broken spark chamber from the 'Con. Good news, the Decepticons probably didn't know that their bug got squashed. Hah, geddit?

Never mind.

Dahlia clucked our tongue, an odd sound I'd never heard before, and twisted the crystal dial. “Hmm... speakers at maximum...”

The speakers crackled, and then, I heard Prime's voice:

“With the All Spark gone, we cannot return life to our planet. And fate had yielded its reward, a new world to call... home. We live among its people now, hiding in plain sight, but watching over them in secret, waiting, protecting. I have witnessed their capacity for courage, and though we are worlds apart, like us, there is more to them than meets the eye. I am Optimus Prime, and I send this message to any surviving Autobots taking refuge among the stars. We are here. We are waiting.”

Permanent message, placed on standby to all Autobot transmissions. Given that most transmissions could be hacked by Soundwave, the Decepticons probably knew as well. Optimus Prime, don't get me wrong, was a great leader, but he tended to be-

“Very prone to speeches, your boss,” Dahlia commented. I hadn't the heart to agree.

So, I needed to contact the Autobots. Specifically, Ratchet. Prowl, maybe, because while Dahlia was a great strategist, she was also a blood-filled body ruled by hormones. I didn't even know if the slagging tactician was on the planet!

I twirled a dial, listening intently before I figured out the transmission and set something up. One good news about being transplanted by spark was that I kept most memories on some level, which meant that I could look back on my death by Megatron at some distant level without any associated horror. This included any number of engineering tricks needed to hard-wire the radio to type out a command to all Autobot frequencies, with the following message:

 
Code: 1MAESTRO. Autobot Meister currently planet-side. Am stuck. Still in active service. Till all are one.
 

Comm silence. More silence. Silence that stretched until daylight and we had to continue driving on back to San Fran and the tiny apartment after dropping off the rental with few questions.

Dahlia laid out, efficiently changing the bandages from the few gunshots and the lacerations on arms and legs and body, and I felt slightly more guilty. “What do we do?”

Dahlia drew a long, tentative breath. “We know that they must have some form of scouting, or some priority of scouting. From your description of size differences, and from the scale of reports that you flagged, clearly the Autobots are targeting larger Decepticons first. We lucked out this time because it was small for its kind. We also know that, whatever a spark is, my body can hide it, because the Decepticon explicitly called me a human. There are two choices, given the currently limited information we have.

“One: we find your friends, seek asylum, and hope that they can provide that asylum safely. I can detail to you the dangers of jumping in unprepared, up to your friends getting evicted from the planet for wilful endangerment of a human being, technical identity theft, etcetera.”

I winced as the cotton swab pressed, and the ethanol bit into the wound. Human pain seemed like a constant companion, one that defied all pain-dampening protocol and elongated it by however long it took the wound to heal. How did they survive this thing every stellar rotation of their lives?

“Two: we lay low, amass information, and infiltrate from the human end. Assuming that yes, the Autobots and the American government have formed a permanent alliance of sorts, then they must have a liaison office of some way, shape or form, primarily staffed by humans.”

I blinked. And blinked some more. And some more. Somehow, on the way back to Fog City, she'd thought up a plan of approach with quite a fair bit of tactical thought. It was impressive. “How,” I said, “in the whole galaxy do you always manage to outsmart the Jazzmeister? Where did you learn it?”

She thought. And thought. And thought. Finally...

She looked straight into the mirror ten minutes later. “I got myself a library card.”

Chapter Text

I would spare everyone the terrible waiting. Daily life, regular medicine, and all the while we discovered some truths:

Due to my current living arrangements , Dahlia's pacemaker was working at full strength enough to ameliorate her heart failure. Unfortunately, it was also regularly leaking nanites into her bloodstream, something I was not keen on sharing just yet but meant that Dahlia was slightly ever healthier, enough that the human medic had finally recommended – oh yes! – taking her off the drug regimen.

In exchange, the real not-really tedium of living as a musician was within grasp. We played across the world; Dahlia was, I was realising, a musician of some accomplishment, if not just a great performer. We travelled, played at churches, weddings and funerals, concerts and parks.

Over the course of travelling for work, Dahlia introduced me to the spicy fare of Thai and Chinese, and I told her about Cybertronian history and art and music. I was learning the violin, and quickly appreciating the small and fiddly instrument for teaching manual dexterity, if nothing else. We made hell for the poor humans who threw in their lot with the Decepticreeps on the sidelines.

The communication array that was not a human radio was put to use with a laptop Dahlia got. I had arranged it, waiting as the streams of data were arranged into Cybertronian glyphs, before being translated into English letters. It was a lot like waiting for an IRC chatroom. During that time, I taught Dahlia how to read the language.

“So that's how your name looks like in your language,” Dahlia commented.

“Roughly, ‘the-one-who-makes-music’,” I answered.

She took up a pen to write bold strokes into a pictogram. “This is my name in Mandarin.”

妲己

“My parents named me after a cruel concubine who destroyed a dynasty,” Dahlia mused, tracing the characters.

“I notice that humans often have some form of family structure,” I offered after a moment of silence.

“I wouldn’t know,” Dahlia reflected. “No Chinese parent would have given me this name, though, since it’s considered unlucky. A name for a deceptively cruel woman. The greatest irony, too, since the dahlia has the meaning of deception.”

Her throat moved. I swallowed.

Silence still fell.

No help came. We kept listening, though.

Prowl reported his arrival on Earth in an encrypted channel we came across by chance. He was very quickly counselled not to use that channel, because we never heard from him. And the rest of them were fraggers, never mind that I had done the somewhat impossible and lived.

We went to Las Vegas for a performance of Japanese pop, and a spin by Nellis Air Force Base – and gambling, though we left before the bouncers realised that we were counting cards. A few more strolls around Chinatown, and I ate chicken and duck by the leg. A drive up California to Los Angeles. A hop to Phoenix, Arizona, and we got lost somewhere around the highway system.

It was in Houston, Texas that we saw a human die.

“Newbies,” the blonde woman leading us into the building was saying. The NASA subsidiary held our target, a possible saboteur and possible informant on Decepticon action.

Some fast talking – read: lying – had gotten us into the office, and now all we had to do was shake off this woman. Easily done; fake a bathroom visit with giant handbag in tow. Hey, sometimes the leaking of humans was useful!

Anyway, Dahlia strolled up and down, located the guy I identified with my tricks and Dahlia's help, and started. “Mr Jerry Wang.”

The other guy leant way too close to our face. “Excuse me? Miss?”

“I come from a party interested in protecting you from the Decepticons,” Dahlia started, us having come to an agreement that lying would be detrimental for everyone involved. “I understand that you've been hiding some information about NASA at their behest. Place your hands on the table, Mr Wang, and we can talk as fellow Chinese-Americans.”

Dahlia's manicured nails were smaller than Jerry Wang's meaty slabs, but I noted the calluses. Human hands could tell a whole story, compared to a Cybertronian's replaced servo. I'd also seen those nails tear the sparks out of smaller Decepticons.

“You know those aliens,” Wang was shifting in his seat. He took his hands off, shifting slightly. A lot like the Beta Male commented by the Moore chappie.

“I represent their enemies, who have allied with a secret branch of the US government.” It sounded way official, and it did help that I'd been the first lieutenant on this mission. Sort of. “Wǒmen yīnggāi yīqǐ nǔlì, hǎo ma?”

That must have sealed some deal, for Wang thrust a bundle of papers into our hands. “Here. Whatever you need. They keep whacking us out, those who know about the dark side of the- It's all up to you now- ack!”

I dived as the bullet hail rang down, a frazzled and familiar enemy swooping down to send Wang by his chair – and pants around his ankles – crashing through the window. Dahlia sharply inhaled, and I lost control of our lungs as we were face-to-beak with Soundwave's own minion.

“Oh, so Jerry had a friend,” Lazerbeak cackled. “Would you like to fly with him?”

Here, Dahlia Su drew herself up, pulled a Roman candle, and gazed at Lazerbeak as she lit it. When she spoke, Lazerbeak reared back, though out of surprise or rage I didn't quite know.

“I am Dahlia Su, and I no longer consider you a sentient being.”

She pulled a pre-prepared fusee out of the giant handbag. Sure, she might be a human, but she had the Jazzmeister tinkling with her systems, she was armed, and she knew where on the buzzard to hit exactly.

Human versus Decepticon, in an enclosed office, with the sprinklers on. The fire alarm went off. Again.

Place. Your. Bets.

Over the course of several months, several steel threads had fallen from the wrecked spark chamber of Lazerbeak, leaking energon by the new worktable. Its consistency and colouring had given Dahlia ideas. Hence, we were stringing an empty violin with Lazerbeak's spark-strings while waiting for a new transmission through the San Francisco winter and spring.

The burn from the Roman candle, and from the fusee's improvised garrotting and eventual decapitation by fire of Lazerbeak, was still there on our leg.

Dahlia plucked a string absently. “D-note. You know, these heartstrings make good violin strings.”

“Spark strings,” I corrected, fitting the violin under our chin, and then experimentally pulling a note. It took a while, but Dahlia's muscle memory meant that I was slowly learning not to make it sound like a dying cat, for once, and more like human music. It was... actually quite educational. “And the fact that you're using the 'Con's strings for this is a slagging scary thought.”

“Months of research, dismantling, and flirting with the creepy Dylan Gould, and tomorrow we reveal you at the same time Hotchkiss Gould Investments is dismantled by the IRS despite Soundwave's best efforts,” Dahlia sighed. “All we have left is the Shanghai concert.”

“And the fact that Dylan Gould is a jackass on top of being a traitor doesn't help his case,” I laughed.

Dahlia smacked her face- my face- our face. “Yes. I abhor traitors. At least Jerry Wang tried his best to give us the data before Lazerbeak killed him. For him to aspire to be superhuman, is a most discreditable admission that he lacked the guts, the wit, the moderating judgement to be successfully and consummately human. It was revenge, too.”

“Revenge?” I asked.

“Jerry was part of the same minority I am,” Dahlia explained, touching up her face with the metal oxide-and-organic-substance mess that the humans called makeup. “It is the least I can do for a fellow countryman.”

“You know, it's strange,” I commented as she continued. “You find great personalities like Prime respectable but not heroic, but personalities like Mr Deep Wang heroic.”

Even for all that now we controlled the same body, I could not read Dahlia's mind. “Do you remember when we watched Schindler's List ? Jerry Wang was an essential worker towards unravelling the mystery. Very skilled. I have not met Optimus Prime yet, and I do not think we might. Meeting a hero is always depressing.”

Code 1MAESTRO: Request meeting. Time again, Echo has left no one (4) behind in the bay of two bridges (3,8).

“Why the cryptic clues?” I asked.

“When I introduced them to you, what was your reaction?” Dahlia asked me.

“Well... I was confused.”

“Yes. So assuming that the Autobots and Decepticons have not learnt to think like humans, how would they understand the context without a human on hand to decode them?” Dahlia smirked. “While I am sure the Decepticons made good use of humans, I doubt any of them would stoop to ask a human to decode intercepted transmissions, especially since you Cybertronians always go on about the advanced processing power of your species inside your heads and your very selves. In that respect, I ensure that only your friends have a chance of understanding the message.”

I felt even more discomfited. The 'Cons had really taken their time in this planet... way more than I felt comfortable with. Surely... surely we had come here by chance, right? So why was there such an ingrained Decepticon presence?

“Jazz.”

“Hmm?” I asked.

“Do you love this world?” Dahlia's eyes showed me the Golden Gate Bridge, in the far distance, a silhouette in the thick fog of the city. There was a sort of magic this day in the city of two bridges.

What kind of crazy question is that? “It's... alright,” I answered.

“I see,” Dahlia simply replied. “I hope we'll survive.”

I hoped so, too.

Chapter Text

After taking more medicine, Dahlia went out to Pier 39 to watch sea lions sunning themselves. She played, busking out in the sun; one thief got a violin bow across the throat before Dahlia pulled out her practice fan. That was exciting, despite the police reprimand. The leaves fell, the city was swamped by more fog, and maybe there could be snow. Maybe.

We were approached by a soldier in fatigues; big, black and possibly dangerous. Dahlia licked her lips, like she'd done when we spotted the male cop passing by. Like when I saw the black-and-white Ford Crown Victoria of the San Francisco police cruiser.

The two of us kept twanging the string of the violin strung with Lazerbeak's entrails. It made a low twang on the E string.

“ Aimo aimo neederu ruushe... ” Dahlia hummed. “ Uchinarase ima shouri no kane o... Koko wa arata na ware no hoshi... ”

“Ma'am?” the soldier strode to us, and I could spot the patch on his shoulder. If I told you... I'll have to kill you, with a dagger on it. Nice. And in the distance, a familiar red and blue semi-truck with flame decals beside the large black GMC Topkick and silver...

“Chevy Corvette Stingray,” Dahlia supplied the car make and model.

“Sorry?” the soldier blinked.

“It's about fantasy, you see,” Dahlia explained to the soldier. “I'm at the place where the fallen angel meets the rising ape. And there is a fallen angel looking for its friends.”

The two of them looked out to Pier 39. A passing sea lion cocked its head up, possibly sensing food. It left disgruntled at the humans for giving it a false alarm.

“Ma'am,” the guy tried a different tack. “You've definitely ingested some marijuana, and you're unable to make decisions clearly. We've received news of a gas leak around here. You need to leave now while we evacuate the... sea lions.”

“They aren't moving,” Dahlia waved to the indolent other mammals of the pier.

Apparently, gas leaks were a favourite cover story to explain us tearing up the human settlements, as Dahlia had explained. They apparently forgot to account for the local wildlife.

“Ma'am,” the guy started again after a bit. “I'm going to help you up and on your way now.”

“I have an appointment here,” Dahlia blithely continued, before she sniffed and I felt a wave of slight nausea. “You don't believe me, do you?”

She got up, packing the Lazerbeak-made violin away into its case before hefting the case. That was before she started at a dead run towards the masquerading vehicles. The black guy shouted behind her, making more uniformed men appear.

“Angels will rain down like visitors from heaven,” Dahlia sang, side-stepping two of them to round forward, waltzing before I took over to skid over Optimus Prime's alternate form and put the truck between us and them.

“Hiya, Boss-bot!” I drummed a tattoo on a decal. “What's crackin'?”

A pneumatic hiss of steam later and I got my answer, as Optimus Prime unfolded himself to stand at his full height and we skidded down to the ground.

Using those handy wiggly fingers, I snapped a salute. “Code 1MAESTRO. Autobot Meister, reporting for duty.”

“...Jazz?” Prime whispered. A few guns started to make their appearance, but Prime waved them off with the instant expectation of withdrawal. I still sensed Ironhide's cannons warming up, though.

“So you brought Ironhide and... who's the newbie?” I asked, before shaking my head. “Never mind. Anyway, voila! The Jazzmeister is back!”

“Wait, you're the...” the blond man gaped, along with a few more soldiers. “I thought... I thought you guys could only trans-scan electronics!”

Somehow, I could feel Dahlia smiling. “I fell on a human with a pacemaker when Megatron tore me in half,” I explained, wiggling my fingers and toes to show them. “My spark integrated with the circuits, far as I can tell. It took over a year to integrate into this body and locate you guys, no thanks because some people probably thought me a fake or something.”

The soldier beside us put his face into his hands. “Oh crap. Bodily possession of a citizen. This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Jazz...” Optimus rumbled with something approaching rage. “Are you saying that you took over this human female's life, body and identity?”

“Er...” I coughed. “Not really took over, per se.”

“You are here. The lady is not.”

“Which assumes that there's a one-sentient-being per body ratio,” I answered before I let go.

Dahlia stumbled, before straightening her back to look up at Optimus Prime with wide eyes, and then looking to the others with a proper degree of caution. She also inched towards the hidden fusee. “Optimus Prime, I presume.”

Ever the gentle giant for the perceived meek people of any slagging organic planet, Prime knelt down to rest on one knee. “Yes. It appears that you know my identity, but I do not know of yours.”

“I am Dahlia Su,” Dahlia answered. “And we have just met, technically. I can vouch that the Autobot you call Jazz did not explicitly take over my life to find your location. Yet, if you would please sort out the current situation.”

“Our medic, Ratchet, is a while away.” Optimus actually fidgeted.

“Let me get this straight,” Dahlia glared at all of the men assembled. “You thought that we were a hostile entity.”

“It would appear to be our misconception, yes,” Prime affirmed. “I hope you could... follow us, Miss Su.”

Dahlia thought, before glancing back at the Ford Crown Victoria. “That was one of your people, right?”

“Prowl, yes,” Prime answered, transforming back into his alternate mode.

Dahlia looked back towards the wary soldiers. “Guns. Down. Now.”

She was probably carrying that exact same look described in a certain book about psycho-pomps, which went something like:

 
White Devil, you do not want to do that, for I have millennia of ancestors and civilisation on you; I am history and suffering and wisdom personified; I am a Buddha and a dragon; so get your hand away before you lose it.
 

The soldiers put the guns away. Dahlia made a sharp rap against the door. “Could you please?”

A moment of pause, the flame-painted passenger door hesitantly swung open. Dahlia climbed in, searching for the radio, and extracting a CD to hold up. “If you could read this information, this would explain everything better. We had to hunt down Russian cosmonauts in hiding for it.”

The radio ejected a pre-placed CD that Dahlia took out, glancing barely at the Elvis picture before slotting our own information into... well, I preferred not to think about it. But Optimus read it, transmitted the information to the others via data packet, and then coughed through the radio as his engine roared and he rolled along with a convoy.

“Why did you include a last will and testament?”

“Irrelevant,” Dahlia shook her head. “How do I say it... when you see humanity, what do you think?”

“They are a brave and noble species.”

Dahlia nodded. “I thought you might. I find them... ineffable.”

Dahlia coughed, and I turned my attention away to quickly regulate her thudding heart, the blood flow spiralling out of control. “I love my world. I realise, it's my only world, and I have no basis of comparison anyway, but I would like to do my part as well. I... It might be hard for me to realise it, but that which I did to collect this, I did for altruistic reasons. It doesn't matter if most of the information turns out to be useless, since now you know, and knowing is half the battle. I realise this is unreasonable, but please... protect... my world... I place myself in your hands, Jazz.”

“Miss Su?” Prime demanded, with an edge of panic. “Jazz, what's going on?”

It stopped . It stopped altogether, even as her body- our body jerked in Prime's seatbelts. “Cardiac- arrest-” I gulped, feeling the salty leakage from the tear ducts stream over our face. “Prime! Medic! Get Ratchet! She's dying!”

Over the sudden screech of air brakes, I reflected. Humanity might be a race of cowards, of weaklings, but whatever. Screw them. Unlike us, whether Autobot or Decepticon, they accepted their weakness. They accepted their weakness, and with it still fought, because they were born with nothing, their bodies weaker than the planet's strongest predators, living on a planet that continually tried to kill them for the sheer fact of existing. Their minds, though, and the faith they had that someone, anyone, would continue their work after that... that faith itself was on par with the Primes, except that no human had any sure knowledge or even a fragging Matrix to connect through. Dahlia, though... It sometimes sucked to be a human, that much I knew. But humans had their music and their culture and they were so infectious and in every single thing in my thoughts and I was...

Could I become human by extension? I don't know, but some days it sure felt like I was becoming human.

Prime opened his doors, allowing human medics to safely evacuate Dahlia out. I let them carefully lever us onto a stretcher, maintaining her heart to keep working. As long as her brain was still alive... as long as it was still there...

She had entrusted her world, her music, even the Lazerbeak-made violin to me. She was useful; very useful. So very useful.

It was dark, so dark when they hauled us in. I felt rough cotton blankets against my skin, our skin, as I laid there and felt the mask strap, supplying oxygen into my lungs. Then there was something being forced down my throat...

“Jazz? Are you there?”

“Hatchet?” I asked, hearing the comms. “Yes, I'm in Dahlia's body.”

“Prim explained,” Ratchet answered. “The surgeon equipped a microphone onto the endoscope, that's why we're having this discussion. You still have control over the body?”

“Yes. I'll use it to ingest fuel too, in case you need me to.”

“You might have to. You're integrated into the female's nervous systems, spinal cord, and brain,” Ratchet explained. “Extracting you at this junction would mean severing the heart and brain from the body. No human can, or will, survive it.”

“You mean that Dahlia's heart won't survive?”

“Her head wouldn't survive it, you mean,” Ratchet grumbled. “Prowl's breathing down my neck about you, by the way, and I think Prime's about to worry himself into enforced recharge over the female. Now, I need you to make a medical decision.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“The humans said that they could intubate, but she signed a Do Not Resuscitate order,” Ratchet elaborated. “We're stuck leaving her to die a natural death.”

“That's ridiculous!” I defended.

“It's their ways, Jazz,” Ratchet explained. “You've been living amongst the humans too long. Choices; you let go, she dies, I cut you out and put you back into your body. We're having it flown in at double-speed, see if I can weld it back together.”

“Not an option. Try the other one.”

“Next, we leave you inside there. But... well, the body's defective.”

“Don't say that.” I snapped. “You don't have a position to stand on if you haven't lived with human weaknesses yet. Yeah, it's fragile, but it's doing what organic bodies do. Next option.”

Ratchet sounded amused, if the enhanced snort that I knew he had no need to do was anything to go by. “The last option... it's only theoretical. And I have no one to corroborate with.”

“Tell me,” I pleaded.

“Theoretically...” Ratchet finished quickly as the doctor started shocking the body. “We're keeping the female under oxygen and de-fibrillating to help you. Yet, other than possibly transplanting the human spark, there's no other way. And, such a method has no precedent. It would be murder to try it on Dahlia without any idea of what to do.”

I froze. Could I... could I do that? Could I rob Dahlia of her senses of taste and smell? Of her coordination in her human body, her multiple ways of managing her bad health and her quiet life of music and performances, for a world of near-constant long-term warfare?

“Optimus said that she left a last will and testament,” Ratchet provided after a moment of pensive silence. “He read, and I quote: 'the dahlia has the meaning of deception. One day, this name might be useful to you.'”

The dahlia has the meaning of deception...

“Organic bodies are fiddly, and don't always accept being fixed,” Ratchet explained. “There is always more humans. Let her go.”

“She researched for me,” I pleaded, still feeling around for the spark, the spark of consummate humanity that dwelt here. I felt it in her mortality, in the body that she inhabited... “At least try, Ratchet.”

Ratchet vented. “...I'll need some more spark-strings.”

Hope blossomed in my chest. “Dahlia brought a violin strung with Lazerbeak's spark-strings. See if you can use those.”

“I don't know what's scarier, that you guys took down Lazerbeak or that she strung a human musical instrument with Lazerbeak's innards.”

I waited, searching until I could feel the tendrils of violin music. The silvery sounds led me to secure the pulse of sparks, pulling it back towards my current spark chamber in the pacemaker.

Then Ratchet reached into my chest.

Chapter Text

“Bloody nanites. It's a miracle, the nanites started to fix her...”

Eyelids fluttered, and I, the Jazzmeister, glanced down at our healing body. “Dahlia, my main gal!”

'Go away, ' she mumbled. ' I'm dead and someone made a clerical error and you're here.'

“You're not dead, Miss Su, despite the rather dramatic cardiac arrest in my alternate mode,” Prime decided to chip in. “You rather terrified my second-in-command there.”

“Madam,” Prowl offered. She'd been right; Prowl's monochrome colouring was adorable like a panda. Get it? Panda car? I wanted to hug him.

“On one hand, I was able to stabilise your heart due to the unexpected nanites within your bloodstream,” Ratchet offered down to his smallest patient of record. “On the other hand... well, we had to use two of Lazerbeak's strings to improvise something.”

'Something.' Dahlia flatly stated, before pausing. 'I- I can't feel my lips . '

“To cut a long story short, whatever we did conflated with your bio-signature to create a spark effect, much like a Cybertronian's spark,” I summarised, leaning on the headrest of the hospital cot set in the middle of an airport hangar.

“The human Galloway is going to throw a tantrum,” Prowl observed.

“Director Theodore Galloway has been removed from his position pending allegations of treason,” I yawned; human reflex. “We ensured it.”

“Was he treasonous?” Prowl enquired, his optics burnished an eerie gold.

“More like an unwitting obstacle tossed by Soundwave into our path.”

“Ah.” Prowl nodded. “Then it is unfortunate, but necessary.”

'So when you say Cybertronian spark ...'

“To my people, you will be considered one of us,” Prime offered. “As for your spark signature, you feel... familiar.”

'Do you know what I'm hearing? I'm hearing target . Even if I'm flattered to be adopted by your alien people.'

That little bit have become pretty apparent. “On the bright side, you can now hear our comms,” I offered weakly.

'I want my body back!'

“Miss Su, your recent cardiac arrest managed to stop blood flow for ten human minutes,” Ratchet warned. “The only reason you still live is because Jazz's transformed pace-maker is releasing enough nanites to repair your tissues and nerves. It would mean that, for now, Jazz would serve as the dominant intelligence while you would fix your own body's systems.”

My trachea tightened. I doubted I had anything to do with it. I choked, and around me the rest of us looked concerned as Dahlia tested the limits of apparently, myself in her body. I remembered the building, and I wondered if Dahlia would murder me out of spite.

What was I saying? This was the woman who would have committed suicide over a year ago if I showed sign of taking over without permission. Of course she'd kill me.

She finally relented when I thought I was finally going to expire. I took huge gulps of sweet air while Dahlia remained silent.

'I understand, ' Dahlia replied, a touch sulkily in my perspective. ' If I can access your comms... could I...?'

My vision whited out, and I saw Prowl now painted in camouflage paint. I kept back a snort.

'Oh, I love a man in uniform, ' Dahlia commented, before she sounded pensive once silence fell. ' This is going to be awkward.'

She was right. Suffering through the triple sensations of lacking food, water and sleep once I awoke, it was followed by active nausea and then temptation by smells. I sat up, seeing the plate of soup. I ate it – tomato, still weird – and fell asleep, and then awoke again in control.

I stood up. Someone had dressed it in a sort of pyjamas while I was under. My feet felt cold, and I almost didn't want to get out of bed. But I stepped out, and felt the warm floors, along with a sort of flowery smell mixed with... salt?

'The sea,' Dahlia whispered. 'And sand. We're in somewhere hot and wet, and it just rained. That smell is... petrichor. It just rained.'

I was having an experience that Hound would probably venture into the Pit for. Might be worth it.

Ratchet's chartreuse alt mode beeped in the far corner. We were in an improvised med-bay, again. “Yeah. Welcome to Diego Garcia.”

'That island out in the middle of the Indian Ocean?'

“Yes,” Ratchet snorted. “Too much sand and salt than is good for any of us, but given without much expectations.”

Dahlia sent a brief of history on the island, before I could feel her smirk. 'I wonder how your boss might think of it.'

If he could do anything about it, I thought.

'Are you the medic?' Dahlia asked Ratchet over our somehow reactivated comm panel.

“I am.”

'How is the repairs on Jazz's body?'

A pause. “We're putting it together.”

'I see. You cannibalised it for parts.'

“I believed that you did not know about Cybertronian technology,” Ratchet turned an optic to me, and I smiled.

'Jazz very kindly elaborated upon Cybertronian funerary customs during one of our conversations. Since your kind has a tendency to recycle parts after the individual has died, and since you're in the midst of civil war, inviting the certainty of scarce resources, it was the most expedient solution of the time, given that all of you believed Jazz dead.'

“Meister was always too good an operative to die like that,” Ratchet grumbled. “I started scrapping it back together when your first message came in. All it really needed was your spark strings and a final weld. Did you... really string Lazerbeak's entrails?”

Smug, lasting silence. 'I've been thinking. If you guys really circulate energon all around your bodies, then wouldn't one ignition burn you to shreds from within?'

I smiled. The smile made Ratchet step back.

Yet, all good things must come to an end, and Ratchet got his revenge when it came for debrief. It was long, varied, mainly consisted of answering millions of repetitive questions from the human brass, and meeting Major William Lennox. The humans hadn't been happy that I'd broken several laws, the first being technical identity theft, and Decepticon claw-marks all over human development.

Prime hadn't been happy about said Decepticon claw-marks, and the dark side of the moon, though the plight of dead Jerry did give him some comfort. It was robbed soon by the implications of Sentinel's location, the Apollo 13 mission, and the reasons that that the Decepticons had yet to murder him for some reason.

“It appears that Cybertron and Earth has shared a fate long before any of us expected,” I elaborated to Prime, who looked really discomfited.

Major Will Lennox, the human who took out Blackout, was looking at us once we left Optimus to stew his processor in the new information. “So... you're Jazz, right? I thought Megatron made a jigsaw out of you.”

“I got better,” I smiled. “Have you met Dahlia?”

Lennox blinked. “Dahlia?”

“This body's owner,” I answered. “She's a bit weak in the processor. We're cutting me out of her body the moment she can function well again. Do you want to meet her?”

The Major looked a bit green. “Erm... right. Do you want anything from the mess?”

“I would like my violin back.”

We got the violin. We played the violin. Somehow, it ended up with an audience, and I opened our eyes to see...

… well, a garage full of Autobots listening.

My arms twinged, and I felt the phantom memory of Dahlia moving my arms, to play a familiar melody. I hummed it in time, and soon I started to sing, and soldiers paused in their tasks to listen to the hymn:

 
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

T' was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home...
 

The human form of recharge was very interesting. One time I thought I saw the sea; another time I saw dancing musical notes and instruments playing themselves. Human dreams were crazy and wonderful things, especially since it meant that I would be awake where Dahlia was asleep. It was the only time I really felt alone in my head, those times.

This time, I crawled out of the hospital cot, glanced around, and walked out in flip-flops. The night winds of the planet played against our hair, a very odd tickling sensation that was cold, cooling. By the beach of the island, I found Prowl in his alternate form by the beach.

I perched on his hood. “Missed me, lover?” I joked, running my fingers on his hood.

His engine purred.

I let go and moved back as he transformed, and a smell like sparking metal greeted me as Prowl rested his arms on either side to box me in.

“You didn't reply,” he said. “I sent you so many messages, encrypted to the most I knew how.”

“Human body. Plus, the 'Cons were monitoring the channels,” I sighed, resting a cheek against the cool metal of his face-plates.

“You're... delicate,” Prowl said.

“It's... not so bad, really.”

“You're in an alien body.”

“Mmm.” I closed my eyes. “Ratchet theorised that, when I get out of here, since most of the memories I formed would be in her cerebral cortex, I might not remember the experience of being human. Or it might ingrain itself into my spark, so that I can never forget it.”

“I see. The experience might serve as a bonding one, should Prime decide to have you describe your sojourns.”

“They have the senses of touch, smell, taste...” I dreamily related. “It's wonderful. It's painful too, but it's wonderful when I can feel the winds, when I can eat amongst other humans, and appreciate more than just fuel... when I can feel you against me. They have their strengths and weaknesses, and sometimes these things, these things that make them strong also make them weak.”

A breeze passed as we considered the beach, the lapping tides giving in to gravity exerted from its satellite. To this human eye, who could not sense the exertions of gravity on great, planet-scanning levels, it is much like magic. Were such a concept to exist in Cybertronix. The only thing close to magic was the Dynasty of Primes and their mystical powers, really.

“I'm sorry I took so long.”

“I... I thought that you had...” a hand nudged against me. “My spark broke, and I felt it. And now, you are here, but you are so very fragile. And that human body you are in- I read the symptoms of heart failure. Shortness of breath, excessive tiredness, swelling of legs... and it's potentially fatal.”

“I didn't know you missed me,” I softly imparted.

“Now I can't even feel your spark,” Prowl replied. “The sooner we can get you back, perhaps I'll rest easier.”

“Going to be a while,” I told him. “I'm sorry. Did I scare you?”

“If I thought it would hold, I'd microchip your spark,” Prowl threatened. “Then at least if you try to face down Megatron again I'll know which human's keeping your spark safe.”

“I should be glad that the human I'm with is reasonable,” I petted the mech, wincing at the thuds of flesh and bone hitting metal. “Otherwise... otherwise I could have just... lived in a human's brain forever. Pit, no. But I got you, in human form, and everything worked out somehow. She brought me back to ya, Prowlie.”

“You would abuse my English designation.”

“It's a language designed to be abused. Why didn't we do this back on Cybertron?” I listened for the high-pitched whirring. “Stop processing, mech.”

“I don't ask you to quit making noise.”

“Yeah well... after driving myself insane with all the possible injuries in this tiny body, I decided to frag it all,” I murmured. “I'm glad you're here. I'd rather have died back then if you didn't come.”

“Jazz-” Prowl stopped, before he continued. “Why? Why are you telling me this now?”

“Like you said,” I smiled as the salty leakages made their appearance again. “This body is weak and it could keel over at any moment. But... it made me face the humans' mortality. And when I faced it... after Megatron, I kept fearing for my life, my spark, and then I thought at the building... I don't want to die. I won't allow myself to die. For once... for once in my very long life and function, I wanted to live so badly. So terribly.”

Prowl nodded. “I will ensure you survive, no matter what comes. And... Jazz, I'm glad... you're still alive. I sympathise with your companion, but I am glad that you found in her a heart to live in. I am glad that, against all odds, you have lived and flourished, even.”

The wind blew from over the land, and I stayed with my dearest. There was a book quote, that described the moment. When I returned, I remembered the quote, written by a human hand who may or may not have had an idea of the profundity behind his words, but sure did know his stuff:

“...there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat... And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes — a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees...had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder...”

I sneezed, and the moment was lost as Prowl bullied me into the interior of his alternate mode and turned up the heating.

Chapter Text

On Diego Garcia, there wasn't much to do, especially since Dahlia had cleared her schedule in advance to ostensibly disappear from her D&D nights to study in a Buddhist monastery in Tibet. As excuses went, that was rather brilliant, but also had the side effect of making us rather bored with only one, albeit versatile, instrument. A keyboard soon joined that ensemble at Prowl's behest, but the bulk of entertainment to be derived was soon made in popular culture.

Well, I say popular culture...

The roar of Sideswipe's engine was a constant on base, especially followed by Prowl's sirens when not chasing Decepticons. The third week of enforced rest on base, and Sideswipe had just broken Dahlia's last nerve as she beheld Pizzicato's newest paint job.

“Just because you are a drone,” she patiently soothed the whimpering keyboard-Transformer, “does not mean that Sideswipe messes with my instruments.”

One raid to Diego Garcia's storage cupboards later, a fair rendition of an angel statue was waiting by Sideswipe's usual dozing spot. That night, we watched Doctor Who . You can probably guess where this is going. Sideswipe's scream was a thing of beauty.

Unfortunately, we also terrified Ironhide, and the result that blew up the viewing hangar led to a fore-instituted ban upon the Weeping Angel prank.

Who could have known that it would form the start of regular discussions? Especially with Dahlia explaining the world news and its relevance to us. It was charming, in an odd, bumbling way that also included getting a crash course on human life in what they called the twenty-first century. It had been so long, since we negotiated like this with a younger race, that Dahlia's utter rage towards Sentinel became something quite inexplicable.

“It's like you guys turned into abusive precursors of a sort!” she complained when I asked. “There's a reason Star Trek thought of the Prime Directive! And this is a culture clash right there!”

At the same breath, near-most every aspect of Cybertronian culture and history had been compared. Amusingly, the Autobot-Decepticon split got compared to the French Revolution, which got progressively less amusing when  Les Mis  got pulled out. But the most amusing was...

“We play the card, 'I Lied',” I ruled gleefully with our opposable thumbs up at the last round of Illuminati against Optimus. “I win.”

“I don't believe it,” Ratchet groaned, having been booted out of the first few rounds. “This is a human game? It must be a Decepticon invention. My senatorial programming still fritzes from it.”

“I hear you,” Ironhide rumbled. “What's more amazing, that Will managed to keep up with Jazz and the squishy, or that Optimus managed to stay until the end?”

“You're a senator who lost to a munchkin,” Dahlia tsked. “I am disenchanted with your methods of argument.”

“I haven't had cause to use those methods of argument.”

“It reminds me of the Senate on Cybertron,” Optimus commented. “Some days I just wanted their faces.”

Every eye rested on the Autobot leader for a while. Optimus's blue optics just twinkled.

“Good days.”

“You're a human.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, Sideswipe,” I answered. “I'm sure they heard you from the other side of the Sol system.”

“You're human,” Sideswipe repeated. “If this is what you get after being ripped in half by Megatron, I want no part of it.”

“Will you look at that,” Ironhide commented dryly. “Even 'Swipe has a fear.”

Then Sideswipe blinked optics, receiving a data programme, and keeled over after opening it.

Dahlia laughed.

Ironhide grinned. “What was that?”

' The feeling of human nausea,' I smirked at Dahlia's answer to the weapon specialist. ' One of many transmittable human sensations. Want one?'

“Which one's for the battlefield?”

Which explained why Prowl walked in to see the greatest Autobot front-liners currently knocked out for the count, Sideswipe clubbing his helm against the floor and Ironhide grinning as he rolled his cannons.

“I think I just introduced the concept of substance abuse to our kind,” I sheepishly commented.

The topic came up during an officer meeting. Optimus asked for, and got, the feeling of eating chocolate. He locked himself off for the rest of the day, and subsequently chocolate in any way, shape or form seemed to have disappeared entirely off of the island, to the complaints of soldier and Autobot alike. Of course, digitised memories soon found themselves listed as controlled substances in Ratchet's med-bay, and the three Autobots in question got a processor scrub.

I found the chocolate stash in a week.

The sensation of floating was very odd. I had no cause to test it in San Francisco, but let us just say that Ratchet took his observations on human buoyancy in salt water on the beaches of Diego Garcia very seriously. Even the sun-sluts of the other Autobots were perversely interested in how our body managed to float in the water.

“When did you get here with Sideswipe, anyway?” I asked Prowl that night, pulling at the cardigan Dahlia had pointedly laid out at the foot of the bed before my excursion out. The violin with Lazerbeak's strings – added with some more Ratchet salvaged – lay at my lap, and I was plucking the strings in 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' fashion. The violin was making out to become my favourite instrument, and I'd seen a lot of strange and wonderful instruments. Maybe not a tuba, either.

“We crashed into the asteroid belt,” Prowl related quietly. “I would have died if not for your message. At that moment, I heard... from Meister. You were stuck.”

The violin thudded as it met Prowl's chassis. I stared at Prowl, still keeping a loose grip on the precious instrument that Dahlia would rip her own heart out to kill me if I damaged it. “I... didn't know.”

“You said it before, that you were so desperate to live to see me again,” Prowl's optics hovered away, back over the Indian Ocean. “I... I am not good with these matters of the spark. They are anathema to me... but I think I can understand your meaning.”

I swallowed, feeling our legs twitch with... something Dahlia forbade me to mention. “I can't wait to be back in my own body.”

“Neither can I.”

We sat in silence for a moment, before...

“Remind me of the process to declare conjunx endura again?”

Come morning, I sneezed.

' Bless you,' Dahlia shivered. ' Rather, curse you, you idiot.'

“Well, you humans get sick too easily,” I coughed, prompting the sudden arrival of a green and yellow search-and-rescue Hummer. “Ratchet, I'm fine!”

“No, you're not!” the CMO flatly answered as he transformed. “You're an idiot for getting sick. Now hold still!”

I grumbled as I got scanned, a funny tickling sensation I hoped I remembered.

“Just the cough,” Ratchet finally conceded after what could be a vorn. “How's the record?”

Prime had, of course, mandated the Jazzmeister to write about being in a human body, which went fine until the inability to describe the sensation of touch, taste and smell in Cybertronix or Neo-Cybex became really apparent. So I defaulted back to English, but it meant a hail of footnotes that still might have evaded description. Somehow, though, Dahlia had discovered that there was no transmission limit towards communication, including program size. Which meant that the .exe file describing the taste of chocolate had become a big hit amongst the Autobot brass when Sideswipe got his hands on it and was quiet for the whole day. Fortunately, my main gal also learned how to weaponise the nausea program.

“Odd,” I conceded at last. “This larynx definitely isn't made for Neo-Cybex. And the cough hurts.”

“Well, wait about three weeks,” Ratchet testily commented. “That's about the time we need before that body can take the stress of another operation, at minimum. Even with the nanites, there's only so many ways to speed up biological processes. Optimus is eager to get it out.”

“Thank you, medic,” Dahlia's voice came out of my throat. “Do you have any news?”

“Prowl's going over the security on the island, Ironhide's off-base with the Lennox family at the moment, Sideswipe's still whimpering over the last nausea.exe file – good call, by the way, – and...” Ratchet hedged. “There might be a Decepticon somewhere on Asia, we're investigating that. Report back on the pace-maker status.”

“It's functioning as expected,” I reported. “Dahlia, can you feel anything?”

“Mainly arms, legs, and lace,” Dahlia replied through our mouth. “Why do you keep wearing the lace ones? The cotton ones are perfectly functional.”

I glossed over the question. “Well, that's my medical check-up, then. Operation's tomorrow.”

“Answer the question,” Dahlia made our eyes narrow. “Jazz!”

“It's my body too!”

“Well, it's originally mine. Who knows what you might do with it?”

I never would have left the body- her body- our body, if only I knew what would happen.

Chapter Text

“ You're big,” was Dahlia's opening comment.

My optics shifted. Being an existence outside of her body was disorienting, given how much I had adapted to seeing things in Dahlia's perspective in roughly three human months.

Dahlia smiled as I looked down at here, and I was struck by how fragile she looked, with the crow's feet in the corners of her eyes and her older appearance, stressed and careworn. No wonder Prowl kept fretting; if I was in that body I'd be worried a stiff breeze would break a bone. “And you're Dahlia.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Dahlia smiled. “Let's go back to figuring out why we're in a Salvador Dalí painting.”

I looked out to the landscape of melting mortal timepieces. “You figured it out just by looking?”

“It's a distinct painting,” she replied. “We saw it in New York.”

“I preferred the Van Goghs. And Balinese art.”

“I preferred Goya, but this is not Goya,” Dahlia rebutted. “How is it that our first face-to-face conversation involves a discussion of human art?”

“Well, you're the only species who could give Cybertron's premiere art form a new perspective of terror,” I replied. “So this... is a dream.”

“Maybe,” Dahlia dragged the word out. “Try to picture something else.”

I thought of another drawing I'd seen, but nothing happened. I looked at Dahlia, who was holding a glass of water. “What?”

“Behind the persistence of memory, there's its disintegration,” Dahlia pointed, before walking forward. I followed her, my stride slower than normal despite that I now towered over Dahlia, and we jumped onto yellow bricks floating in space to get to an amphitheatre that resembled the inside of some of Cybertron's cities; gears upon gears upon the mechanics of giants.

Dahlia paused to look at a plaque, still balancing a now half-full glass in her palms. “2009?”

“But it's only December 2008!” I objected.

“It's a dream. Albeit a mysterious one,” Dahlia looked around, before readiing the plaque. “Tim Wetherell, The Clockwork Universe.”

She stepped forward, a road of yellow bricks unfolding itself in a Möbius strip and loops, until it unfolded into spires and domes.

“This is...” I quietly looked around. “Cybertron.”

“Created with the yellow brick road,” Dahlia immediately spun around to absorb her surroundings, as Cybertron's spires petered out to tall data-banks, beeping LEDs and cable ports, datapads and visual interfaces just floating along the way.

“Well, how'd you explain the Iacon Hall of Records unfolding like this?!” I asked.

“I've never been here,” Dahlia looked troubled as she glanced to me. “Okay... Sequence of events: we sent a message, got your friends to pick you up, moved to Diego Garcia for a bit- it's been a month. It's been a month, which meant that they were going to cut you out of my heart, so... we must be under anaesthetic for the operation.”

“You mean those drugs humans use to enforce stasis?” I asked, pondering it. “That... makes sense.”

“So if we're dreaming, we're in a shared dream?” Dahlia asked.

“Might be possible,” I conceded. “But it means that I've integrated so far into your cerebral cortex, that Ratchet's gonna have to stagger operations just to get all of the Transformium out of your system.”

“Transformium?”

“The metal that makes up our bodies, allows us to transform.”

“The quintessence material,” Dahlia realised.

I winced. “Quintessence?”

“It's an old human theory, that the world was composed of the four Hellenic elements and quintessence,” Dahlia supplied, now wandering to consider the data-banks. “In English, it refers to the pure, concentrated essence of something abstract. Back to the situation at hand.”

“We're sharing a dream?” I suggested.

“Go on,” Dahlia answered. “That implies one important question. Such as, how many people are sharing this dream with us?”

A pause, and then a chuckle: “Oh, you are indeed first amongst equals.”

The Hall of Records shifted, forming more of a museum walkway, airy with open ceilings and artefacts arranged on low pedestals of viewing, within...

“A basilica,” Dahlia observed with me as the outlines of interlocked gears kept forming themselves.

“Used in its first meaning, of a public meeting with officials,” boomed the great voice as the gears around us shifted. “Welcome.”

I looked up. And way up. The Cybertronian wore armour of the same gears and springs motif, gears whirring behind clear material that was superimposed over his chassis. Parts of the armour plates were shaded, sometimes purple, sometimes gold, sometimes too hard to tell as his optics were directed towards us.

“Another Cybertronian thing?” Dahlia asked me.

“Dunno,” I felt the cables of my neck tensing in preparation for a fight. “Who are you?”

“I am Vector Prime.”

“...that's nice,” Dahlia commented faintly once it was clear that I was too stumped to conveniently provide exposition. “This realm is of your creation, Vector Prime?”

“It is what it is,” Vector Prime replied enigmatically.

“So it is the dream realm,” Dahlia pondered.

“That could be said of it. You are very astute.”

“And the reasons for our... displacement?”

“A necessary... deception.” Vector Prime strode forward, one step collapsing parts of the grand Hall of Records. “Now you know my designation, but you have not introduced yourselves.”

“I am Dahlia Su,” Dahlia replied. “He's Jazz.”

“And that is not your full designation,” the great Cybertronian answered.

“The rest of my designation does not matter.”

“It does,” he answered. “The myth behind the name matters, especially to understand the nature of the deception.”

“Enough of me. What about you?”

“I am a healer,” he replied. “There is a concept amongst your kind, though I am not sure if you are familiar with it.”

“A doctor?” Dahlia asked.

“Doctor Who?”

“What?” I asked.

Dahlia paused, before shaking her head. “Are you... joking? Why are you making that joke?”

“It amuses me, sooth. And you understood it.”

“It's lame, is what it is,” Dahlia rebutted. “You're a time traveller?”

“Close enough,” I rasped.

“I am the guardian of space and time,” Vector intoned as an explanation.

“Great, you're Sailor Pluto,” Dahlia nodded blandly. “Let's ignore the difference between dreams and space-time continuum for the moment. What. Do. You. Want.”

“Your full name,” Vector Prime stated. “Dahlia Su Daji. It is an omen.”

Dahlia shook her head. “My name, Dájǐ, is a... divination? A prophecy?”

“It is a deception,” Vector Prime answered seriously. “Do you know of the story behind the name?”

“Dájǐ, the last concubine of the Shang dynasty,” Dahlia recited. “Said to have been possessed by a nine-tailed thousand-year vixen spirit to bring about the dynasty's end in the Chinese novel Fengshen Yanyi, often translated as The Investiture of the Gods. She is a major antagonist and the first corrupter of the dynasty, though not necessarily the chief influence. Where is the deception?”

“A fox spirit masqueraded as a human in the court of the fatuous Emperor.” A gear fell out and shattered on the stone floor. “Is that not deception?”

“You're saying that Megatron was corrupted?” she asked. “By a spirit masquerading as a Decepticon?”

“You of all people know how easy it is to fool the righteous,” Vector Prime laid out his servos. “I applaud your intuitive leap, since it becomes easier to lead you on the correct path of reasoning. Now, let us depart from that segment of human civilisation, and move towards the branch commonly known as the Judeo-Christian myths.”

“The fact that you are using human myths to lead me on this path is frankly disturbing and interesting, both,” Dahlia dryly commented.

“Guarding space-time is a long proposition, and the planet of mud in the backwater galaxy of your planet is rife with the one thing of Cybertronix civilisation I truly missed, that passed with Prim,” Vector Prime answered. “I admire literacy in all its forms, even if, ah, stodgy old mechs like Alpha Trion once drained the joy out of stories. The topic is as follows: there was a great teacher and his twelve apostles.”

“I get it,” I spoke out. “The Fallen.”

The ancient Prime beamed. Another gear fell out, and with it the tinkle of glass.

“So, there were thirteen of you, one of you betrayed each other, and that traitor is... controlling the Decepticons?” Dahlia asked.

Vector Prime smiled.

“Okay...” Dahlia nodded as the ancient Prime continued nodding and smiling, a gesture that had me slightly worried that he was unhinged. “And you can't actually confirm or deny that, or tell me that, or you would have done so already. But, you are breaking the rules by telling us these things.”

“Were we?” he asked. “We are discussing literature currently.”

Dahlia snorted. “ Aiyah . This is a timey-wimey ball.”

“Spoilers,” Vector Prime replied.

“You're a Whovian,” Dahlia sighed. “Right. Aside from the utter irony of that fact you just implied but not really implied, you've been referencing human mythology and popular culture, what I know instead of your native myths. Which indicate that you've been in contact with human civilisation enough to at least understand their events and their written communications. It's a bit creepy, but I suppose anything is possible for the continued existence of space-time or its guardian.”

“Many thanks for your foresight and restraint in the face of fridge logic,” Vector Prime agreed.

“Could you stop that?”

“No.” And he looked gleeful at saying it. “The final point I must submit to you for your consideration without my aid. The Cybertronian with the designation of Jazz; you have experienced human weakness in its purest and most crystallised form. It is possible for a Cybertronian spark to inhabit a human body. Is it possible for the reverse to become true? That is, a human soul in a Cybertronian body, particularly in one body that would go on to lead all of Cybertron from its past into its future?”

“...no?” I replied faintly, denying that slightly horrifying possibility. “A human... as Prime?”

“That sheer power...” Dahlia looked faint, for the first time I had seen. “I can't imagine it. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The results would be horrifying.”

“Yes,” Vector Prime replied as the last gear fell. “The fallen will come for his revenge, which is, on hindsight, a truly human trait. Truly human.”

He looked to Dahlia as the Hall of Records shattered, and lights came on.

“I'm sorry, Prima. This was the most I could do.”

“You're huge.”

“I'm pretty sure you've said that before,” I eyed Dahlia, hours after the surgery and Dahlia had finally woken up a few hours after I got back to my own, fairly dented body.

The operation had gone... well, Dahlia had flat-lined twice on the operating table, and sent Ratchet into paroxysms of yelling about human fragility in general. Everything went fine, for a given value of fine that meant 'this human was still holding valuable technology that could change the fate of the human race.'

She was still tiny, but autocratic, like a model empress; yet the two operations had made its toll upon her, ageing her to something around the middle age of humans. She looked about as fragile as those china dolls somewhere in Chinatown's shops; long-lasting with proper care, but one wrong move... Not that I was much better; weld marks and staples were still apparent. At least I didn't look like I was going to die of disease any time soon.

My main gal now turned her head to regard Optimus Prime, eye to eye despite their difference in height, since she was on an elevated platform. “What will be done with me now?” she rasped, looking from Major Lennox to the Prime.

“We...” I had never really seen Optimus hesitate. “Ratchet has given me his assessment of the transformed pace-maker integration.”

He switched on his projectors, bathing the platform in light as he displayed a diagram of the human heart, with pace-maker attached, except now the device was sprouting metal filaments that followed the entire body.

“It has still given you a spark-signature, thus you could still be marked by us. Ratchet has determined that, even should it prove possible to remove the transformium permanently without an elemental reconstitution,” Optimus started, “you would not survive the process. He has also expressed some concerns about the multiple surgeries that complete removal would necessitate, with little chance of success. And...”

“I can rearrange my schedule,” Dahlia answered. “When is the next one?”

Optimus actually fidgeted, as if he would rather be anywhere but here. “It is... not about that.”

Lennox took over, perplexed as he opened the file. “Well, according to Ratchet's analysis... the metallic pieces have begun to be absorbed into the human body somehow. They're causing the surrounding cells to limitlessly replicate, evade apoptosis and inducing metastasis in the body- erm, it forms m alignant neoplasms that's undergone angiogenesis and begun to infiltrate the bloodstream... what does this mean ?”

Dahlia had begun to shrink in on herself during Lennox's listing of symptoms, but at this she tiredly turned her head. She looked even more tired and careworn already. “So... that is the price of a miracle.”

“Miss Su... I am so sorry,” I had never heard Optimus sound this... guilty. “Ratchet will do everything in his power to ensure your comfort. If there is anything we could do...”

Dahlia sighed. “To answer your question, Major Lennox. He's saying that the remains of the pacemaker in my body is causing cancer of the blood. An incurable and terminal cancer.”

Lennox dropped the file.

I looked up the term, and whatever good feelings I had from returning into my body immediately evaporated as the horrific truth sank in. We had lifted one death sentence, to replace it with another, even more horrifying one.

“Jazz's spark was apparently sending the neoplasms into apoptosis automatically,” Optimus was saying. “Its removal precipitated the angiogenesis. Ratchet has included options for palliative care, and there remains limited communication between yourself and us that you can use to ameliorate treatment. We will do everything in our power to ensure-”

“Save it, please,” Dahlia answered. “You still have the Decepticons to worry about.”

“I'd like to stay,” I volunteered.

A tear fell down one cheek. “Can I... can he?”

“Of course,” Optimus then considered little Pizzicato. “Pizzicato, and our Chief Medical Officer, will remain at your disposal, for the remainder of our acquaintance. It is... the least we could do.”

Dahlia sat down on the edge of the platform. Warily, Lennox and Optimus backed slightly, and I surged forward as she absently petted Pizzicato, standing by as she just... stared at me. My main gal seemed to have had all the life drained out of her. I don't blame her. Perhaps it had.

Then she started to cry.

This was the price of a miracle.

It wasn't worth it.

Chapter Text

I now know how Cybertronians found the concept of cancer. They found it horrific.

Even Sideswipe remained completely quiet during Ratchet's careful explanation of the disease. What it meant; the reproduction of cells goes out of control. Instead of dividing and multiplying in an orderly fashion, as they should, the cells multiply chaotically and violently without stopping, invading nearby parts of the body, and sometimes even spreading further through the bloodstream or lymphatic system, and the body's emergency killswitch mechanisms fail to kill the extra cells as my presence accidentally did.

An offhand comment that anyone could get it made Ironhide excuse himself to call the Lennox farm. Apparently he got used to little Annabelle, who knew?

The most horrifying thing: the fact that a cancer is essentially an out of control aspect of the living body, meant that the only way to treat it effectively was to kill the growing body. It was a case where Unicron's presence might be better than Primus's blessing, and none of us were equipped to handle that revelation that the cure was to intentionally poison the body.

“I... I never thought that Primus's blessing could be too much,” Optimus reflected, a touch sadly. “It is... a horrific perversion of the blessing of life. And...”

“Ratchet's report said that radiation also presents a factor in cancer formation,” Sideswipe volunteered. “Guess we're stocking up on radiation foam?”

“We are,” Optimus gravely related. “We must. Ratchet, we must conduct those surgeries as fast as possible, and work out a treatment regimen. Ironhide, check all our weaponry, make sure that we haven't accidentally given our fellow human warriors the same aberrations. And... Jazz, has Ratchet returned you to light duty yet?”

“Yes.” I gave my reply tonelessly.

“Miss Dahlia Su will need a guardian for the... for the remainder of her life,” Optimus hesitated. “I would do it myself, but she wanted you. Major Lennox tells me that Miss Su will need a friend in this... phase.”

“I'll need a list of what to expect,” I spoke woodenly.

Prowl was next. “About the spark signature...”

“It doesn't matter now, does it?” I asked. “It would be a mercy.”

Prowl stopped to consider all of us, optics flaring. “We have caused much trouble for Miss Su. We might have extended her life once, but we have given her a walking death sentence on top of making her a target. Despite so, it is not a mercy to leave her probable fate at the end of a Decepticon's gun simply because none of us would concede that we caused this!”

Ironhide, Ratchet and Sideswipe actually jumped. Sometimes it was very easy to forget that Prowl royally fragged off could be bad.

“Prowl is right,” Optimus conceded at last. “Accident or not, we caused this. Regardless of the circumstances, we must atone for it. Miss Dahlia Su has taught us much about human civilisation, has improved our understanding of humans, and has allied with us against the Decepticons and those humans manipulated or turned to their cause, to help us without expectation of reward. She brought back one of ours, at great personal cost. We cannot abandon her now.”

Silence settled over the meeting of the Autobot officers currently on-planet.

“Does Bumblebee know?” Prowl next spoke.

“Running scans on Samuel, last I checked,” Ratchet's tone was dry. “It's a hard revelation. Ironically, I think Hound would have taken it much better than us, since his studies of organics meant that he knows that they... die like this. Soft-sparked Hound...”

“But we did not cause most of them, did we?” I asked. “This was caused by me.”

To that, Ratchet could not answer.

I found Dahlia in the Allspark vault with Pizzicato, idly playing a song to the glittering shard. It glowed sometimes, as if it wanted more music.

“I'm sorry,” I related to her quietly when the music faded.

“What good would it serve for the angels to fall, if the apes could not rise?” she answered without looking. “I've... made my peace with it. I think. I cannot help but think it might be worth seeing.”

“It's not.” I begged. “Please don't say that.”

“Can't be helped,” Dahlia shrugged. “Jazz... I'm more afraid of the cure than the actual disease. But I'm afraid of losing my hands, too. I can't live without music.”

A completely rational fear. Human limbs were difficult things to fix, too. “I'll be there,” I promised. “We lived as Dahlia Su once upon a time. No matter what, I will be there for you.”

“Is this what you felt?” Dahlia asked. “When faced with human mortality? The helplessness?”

“No, it's a different kind of helplessness,” I said. “This is the one where I can't do anything to save you. For all my power, I can't save you. I'm so sorry.”

“I don't want pity,” Dahlia frowned, still looking at her hands. “You know... we still have the Shanghai concert.”

“Yes.”

“And Mardi Gras next year. And Bali. And the Jazz Festival in New Orleans,” Dahlia smiled. “We should go there again. We... will, right?”

“Of course.” I tried not to consider the eight-month death sentence that Ratchet had pronounced. How many orns was that? They seemed so short now, now that I was metal again, and she was flesh, and she was dying because of me.

As a drone, Pizzicato had been brought along with Prowl to help him, but Optimus somehow allowed it to follow my main gal, who now spent days mournfully playing either Pizzicato or the violin. Sometimes she spoke to Prowl or myself. Other times found the other Autobots and Dahlia still doggedly going through the popular culture arguments, especially with Doctor Who. Some times found her in the med-bay with Ratchet's chemotherapy, still debating with Optimus about Vector Prime.

She was settling her affairs in order; the stoicism that she used was even more spark-breaking than if she had broken down into despair.

“I need to get back to San Francisco,” Dahlia finally said one day.

Ratchet stopped in whatever he was doing. Anyway, he was operating with a crash course on medical oncology, so whatever he was doing was improvised at best. “Are you sure? The next surgery is in two weeks.”

“I am fairly sure that military funds are not technically supposed to be turned towards medical treatment,” Dahlia pointed out. “Aside from that, however, I have... assets to dispose of.”

“I doubt that is a good idea, and Optimus will probably agree with me.”

“Optimus Prime,” Dahlia bitterly replied, “can say that to my face, from the diplomatic leader of your alien race to a victim of this war. He may then escort me to my city, where I may set my affairs in order, before I am declared missing.”

They let her go.

Prowl and I followed Dahlia and Pizzicato back to the city of fog. It was a tiny thing, so I waited outside as Dahlia got in with Pizzicato's help, the tiny bird-shape keyboard drone supporting her with one wing from behind. She then then sat inside the apartment all day where the sounds of piano music poured out, enchanting and sorrowful, until night passed and she came to her window, wan and tired.

“Are you alright, Jazz, Prowl?” she asked softly. “I'm sorry, I forgot.”

“We are here.”

“Why are you here?”

“I am a tactician.”

It did not answer any question, until Dahlia rebutted: “With a real-time communication array for the battlefield?”

“Until our communications officer arrives, yes.”

“Am I so important to the point that the second- and third-in-command of our extraterrestrial friends have to personally escort me and feed real-time information back?”

“Ratchet must monitor your condition, and he is unable to leave his duties,” Prowl diplomatically replied. “There is also the matter of your unique spark signature. Since Jazz is not certified fit for combat duty just yet, it stands to reason that I must fight.”

“So he is the getaway vehicle,” Dahlia looked amused. “You do know that impersonating law enforcement is a crime, right? It might set an interesting precedent. Jazz?”

“Yup?”

“Try not to get impounded. Good night.” Dahlia left us with those sweet words.

“What about that spark signature?” I scanned it, picking out the false signal of Cybertronian life aside from Prowl's.

“Optimus said that it is nearly identical to a Prime.”

“Well, that's- wait. What?” I hissed back.

“Yes.”

'So... what does that mean?' I asked quietly through secret comms, since Dahlia could probably tap into those.

'As of now, nothing.' Prowl confirmed. 'Little tactical or morale value can be gained from Dahlia Su's current state. Bait, perhaps. The implications of seeing Vector Prime, though, must be considered, especially since the Guardian of Time has excused himself from Cybertron for so long... that it invites the question of the Fallen.'

'But the Fallen is a fairy tale.'

'We must acknowledge the probability, however small,' Prowl replied. 'What implications it may hold, even I have no idea.'

December was moving into January, Christmas exchanged for New Year's decorations, and Dahlia even hung a tiny sprig of late mistletoe over Prowl's hood with a wink in my direction, as she came out to tune the vertical piano in the garage I was sharing with Prowl, and replace the strings with the roll of piano wire inside the garage.

The next day, I found the battered copy of Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch in my glove compartment.

Life went on. Dahlia went for chemotherapy at St Francis Memorial, slowly wasting away. Ratchet began studying up on nanite-assisted surgery, and his frequent visits to San Francisco often brought more news than none. Prime was pushing for Dahlia to be treated at Diego Garcia, but there was little that medicine, human or Cybertronian, could achieve.

From what I heard, 'Bee was now taking a firm alliance with Samuel Witwicky's immune system. That was going to be a very short alliance, if Dahlia was any indication.

One February morning, Dahlia came out to sit with Prowl and I. She was covered in dust after a shower from her taiji, with a towel over her hair. “I have one concert in Shanghai that I must do. After that, I'm going to get out of the music world with an excuse of finding treatment in Singapore.”

“That... is good,” Prowl finally admitted. “It is a good cover story, at least. Your next chemotherapy at St Francis Memorial shall be tomorrow.”

“How long more do I have?” Dahlia ignored the jibe.

“Enough time to see the jazz festival at N'Awlins,” I answered. “We'll be there.”

“That's... good,” Dahlia smiled, before looking at the skies. “I... I learned about my heritage in Chinatown, San Francisco. My Chinese name was regarded as unlucky. During that time, when I was young I wanted to change it to Zetian. Instead of being named for a concubine, I wanted to become empress, the Empress of China, founder of her own dynasty. It was a silly dream, and I found music to supplant it. Somehow, maybe... maybe I just wanted not to be forgotten.”

Prowl and I remained silent. Actually, I nudged Prowl quietly, and his engine purred in response.

“Yeah,” Dahlia smiled. “I have become the teacher of some refugee aliens on the subject of human civilisation, life and death. I think I would be remembered for that, at least.”

“You are one of the first to have spoken to us in new terms,” Prowl related. “Of peace, and the fantasies of humans. Sometimes it is very easy to forget what one fights for.”

Dahlia looked at him solemnly. “I am glad to have met you. Both of you.”

“And I you... Dahlia.”

“So am I... gal, you're shivering.”

Dahlia coughed. “Immunosuppression is a common sign of chemotherapy. I think I should go back in. Tomorrow... let's go busking again.”

She made to stand, tottering unsteadily as she walked back into the apartment building, Prowl and I extending sensors with great worry as we sensed her getting back into her apartment building.

There was a race in life; humans sprinted towards it, and Cybertronians weren't aware of it. All organics died. Death was a certainty.

Ironic, that the universe would favour organic life so much and still strike it down like this.

Shanghai turned every plan for Dahlia to die quietly and with dignity off the battlefield into crap.

It was the last concert, an informal fund-raiser for some cancer foundation. I didn't quite get it, but anything that furthered interest into advancing medical oncology was all right in my book now.

There wasn't supposed to be a fragging Decepticreep in the area, but there was. NEST evacuated the city, was going to attack, and then, outside the zone, I heard her sing:

 
Unknown soldier, lying on the floor,
Explosions forever,
Now you take me away from danger...

We had always covered up your face,
Out there who will watch your back?
Because I don't know if I can stay here...
 

The Decepticon had awoken, body swinging to the music. It gave a guttural, low roar, more one of enchantment rather than rage, beady ruby optics fixed upon the lights of the concert that lay outside the locked zone. In the far distance, my optics could make out its humongous size and its swaying.

“Frag,” I realised, venting outside of the stadium. “He's coming here.”

 
Game over,
Now we hate our brothers.
No longer can move my feet...!

But it's
Keep on keeping on,
And it's I just wanna know
Inside it's I don't want to know,
Over head they fly high, it's going
On and on and on,
Will we oversee the smile of love and peace for everyone?
You can be sure,
I'll be back again.
 

At the bridge, the Decepticon roared, seemingly shaking off its trance as it made a single-minded run towards us, cars and buildings wrecked in its wake. I prepared to shoot, though more were panicking, and then Optimus tackled it off of the road.

The rumbles of the destroyed roads did not affect the clarity of my audio receptors, as the last verse echoed:

 
And I remember a long time ago,
I'll be there for you, please wait for me.
Oh you must believe me...
Better you believe your mind.

And I remember a long time ago,
I'll be there for you, please wait for me.
Oh you must believe me...
Better you believe your mind.
 

I ran, following the sheer carnage of the Decepticon hunt, to find Optimus and Ironhide about to execute the 'Con.

“Any last words?” Optimus raised his giant gun – more off a small cannon, really – readied to double-tap.

“This is not your planet to rule,” the 'Con whispered. “The Fallen will rise again.”

I would have slammed into Ironhide's aft if not for a timely skid. “What?”

Optimus shot the fragger, but I was already racing back to the stadium as the shot echoed behind me, overwhelmed with worry.

Optimus must have thought so too, since his comm message came fast. 'Secure Miss Su immediately.'

'What happened?' I demanded, still confused by what I had witnessed.

'I-' Prime cut off. “Prowl?”

'The Allspark is bleeding energon,' Our SIC reported with barely an inflection in his vocaliser.

'Energon?' Ironhide sounded incredulous.

'Yes,' Ratchet relayed. ' Enough energon to possibly sustain us for three vorns were we liberal with it.'

'That's... a lot of energon. Combined with Ironhide's find...'

'Yes, Prime. No use crying over spilt energon now, though I'm catching it by the water containment tank.'

Dahlia looked at the array of drugs prepared by Ratchet when the CMO arrived in San Francisco a few days later. “Isn't this... overkill?”

“The human CMO affirmed their prescription,” Ratchet grumbled. “Medical oncology is still a budding science, and one caused by Cybertronian nanites is unheard of. One to slow nanite action, one to mitigate metal absorption... well, we could always try to filter it from your bloodstream, but the metal absorbed in your bones would simply replace it with the iron in your bloodstream.”

“A host-programmed virus,” Dahlia nodded.

“Something like that,” Ratchet agreed through his radio. “Organics have some of the most fascinating modes of transmission, especially organic viruses.”

Autobot and human were at Pier 39, watching the sea lions sunbathing once more. Ratchet looked way too absorbed by the sea lions for it to be real.

“And the next operation?” Dahlia prompted.

“Next month,” Ratchet promised. “We'll be starting on your torso first, before moving to the extremities. Are you experiencing any breathing difficulties or chest palpitations?”

“No,” Dahlia answered. “Just... extreme tiredness. Fever sometimes. Weakness. I could compile... well, something like the nausea.exe file?”

“I believe information protection laws may have something against that.”

“But you're technically outside of Earth jurisdiction and it's beneficial to treatment,” Dahlia reasoned. “Plus, the files are protected by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I would love to get files like that too,” Ratchet answered. “It is simply that the situation is complicated. Now, Miss Su-?”

“Dahlia, please.”

Ratchet nodded, smiled, and saw Dahlia off to chemotherapy with Prowl. “A word, Jazz?”

I was opposite the CMO as Ratchet was looking over the pier in his alt-mode.

“It's about the spark-signature,” Ratchet said at last.

“You're going to remove it?”

“When I first performed surgery when you were still in the pacemaker, I used one of Lazerbeak's strings to secure her,” Ratchet admitted. “The spark-string is filled with nanites, and its configuration is reorienting itself... like an organic protein. It's forming a sort of reasonic configuration that's integrating itself through her spinal cord into the cerebellum.”

“Ratchet,” I held up both servos. “English.”

The string is using its leftover programming to transform the transplanted pace-maker with the leftover metal during your integration into a direct column into Dahlia's memory core,” Ratchet simplified. “And, as a result of its interference, it's amplifying the spark-signature that Prime says is that of Prima's spark.”

“Amplifying?” I echoed.

“Amplifying,” Ratchet agreed. “Spark detection is not an exact science, depending on a multitude of factors, including the pitch of the resonance, but I'm fairly sure that no human should be able to naturally copy a Cybertronian spark-signature... right? They can barely regulate their own internal environment.”

“They... don't have to.” I had lost no memory of living as a human; in fact, they had been embedded into my spark so much, some days I wanted to play a violin, before I remembered that violins did not come in my size. Truly human traits, like desire and revenge... I had them. The Fallen has them.

What is truly human?

One of those abstract things, I decided. Like what that book said about the demon who did his best to make the short lives of humans miserable, because that was his job, but nothing he could think up was half as bad as the stuff they thought up themselves. It was built into the design, somehow. They were born into a world that was against them in a thousand little ways, and then devoted most of their energies to making it worse.

The Decepticons might be bad, but there's nothing we can do to them that they don't do themselves and they do things we've never even thought of, often involving electrodes and giant monsters and fridge horro r in quiet places that scare even Ironhide with statuary. They've got what we lack. They've got imagination.

And electricity, after a fashion.

He'd written: It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.

I found Dahlia later in the garage where her vertical piano stood, surrounded by schematics and music sheets just by where Prowl and I were temporarily staying. Guard duty was a mite boring, but not when every day brought a new music piece and regular examples of the craziest string instruments played by man. The first thing I'd do with a solid holoform, if Ratchet ever got around to it, would be to play the piano.

Dahlia was shivering as she played Amazing Grace once more. I let my vents expel heated air to warm the place. Prowl trundled in soon, and I blew a blast at him just to be funny, thought we were more relaxed in the heated and humid air.

She kept sneezing sometimes, muttering about having to clean up later. She cleaned up with Pizzicato's help, and then said good night when she went upstairs for her nightly recharge. “And try not to hump each other,” she warned, “don't think I haven't seen you eye that '67 Chevy Impala last time we watched Supernatural.”

I grinned as she closed the door. “Hey, Prowl...”

We might have traumatised Pizzicato a bit, as much as anybot could traumatise the tiny drone. Dahlia got her revenge with a TARDIS police box camera. Yet, as the tiny TARDIS beeped with the signature Dalek 'Exterminate!!' alarm, I might have wished that she could live for her revenge a million times over.

Chapter Text

“ I don't think my medical insurance can pay for all of this,” Dahlia forlornly reflected in the last night we spent in San Francisco. Giving notice to all our gaming friends was more long-winded, and involved a funereal dirge and celebration. The landlord had already gotten notice, everything was due to be packed and sold or disposed of, and Dahlia was booking a plane ticket to Singapore and packing, just to be thorough.

W hen she was done, a mite of hacking would ensure that Dahlia Su would be routed from Changi International Airport to Paya Lebar Air Base, where a military plane to Diego Garcia would await us. It was not be a cure, or Bali; but Dahlia would at least expire in warm sands and sunny beaches no matter what.

Dahlia traced the wood-grain on the piano forlornly with a fingernail. “This was the first new thing I bought, after I learnt how to tune pianos professionally. I don't think I've ever gotten a specialisation in anything.”

“You're good enough,” I defended.

“Not at wind instruments,” Dahlia admitted. “Congenital heart failure. It went as far as to affect my lungs. Wind instruments and brass were the only things I never looked to master.”

“What will you do with it?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Dahlia sadly replied. “There's Pizzicato and most of my instruments in storage, and a violin, but the piano is my centrepiece. To sell it, or get rid of it...”

I awkwardly revved my engine, causing Dahlia to give me a look with fever-bright eyes. Her bone-thin fingers reached to stroke the long-eared cap that covered her head. “Oh, right... Jazz...?”

“What do you think of the others?” I settled for asking until she slowly meandered towards my alt-mode body with Pizzicato's help.

“They're very nice,” Dahlia rested herself against my silver paint, and I didn't need scanners to tell that she had a fever. Slagging chemotherapy, I was going to divert funds to every cancer research society at this rate. “I didn't do so much for them.”

“You have no idea,” I broke the news to them. “You saved us so much trouble. Not just with Gould and others like him, but with understanding humans. Until I met you, I... I found humans primitive and violent. But there's... goodness too. There's that goodness, in you.”

“Why? I'm no one special. I'm not even good at helping, not like this.”

“You are my friend. For that, your worth will not change.”

“I'm scared of dying,” Dahlia abruptly said, as Pizzicato fluffed its wings and clicked its beak.

“I'll defend you from it,” I offered. “You, who were born with nothing, and yet accomplished so much. I will be here.”

“Do not pity me.” Her fingers were worn to the bone, and still Dahlia Su clung, to my upholstery, to her pain, to life, with a stubbornness that could possibly match Optimus Prime. “We can become anything, because we were born with nothing. I'm scared of dying, while my world burns, and no one saves it. Now you're a part of it.”

“Oh...” I reflected.

“Rejoice. For on my side, I have the strongest impulse of the spirit, and you are on my side too.”

“How?”

She patted my upholstery. “Remember when I sat at the edge of a roof with you in my heart, prepared to kill you if you tried anything funny? Remember that. Then fear will find you again.”

I warmed the insides, keeping in mind Ratchet's warning that the nanites were self-replicating into her cortex. She might not ever remember us soon.

Dahlia shifted against the upholstery. “Will you miss me?”

I set the heating on to comfort levels, keeping a vigil until Prowl was to return for our escort. “Until the end of my days.”

An escalation of Decepticon presences. Forces amassing. Reports of missing humans. Soundwave crashing in on a private concert to glare at its lead musician.

Yeah, that last one was way confusing.

“I'm fairly sure you're not supposed to be late for your appointment,” Dahlia commented amidst the wreckage of the concert hall. Not a hair out of place, not a nerve twitching, despite that the place was scheduled for demolition or that she was facing one of the most dangerous Decepticons of the whole army. Not a single member of the audience arose in this very private concert, yet.

The sangfroid is so awesome, that sometimes I doubted that Dahlia Su was human. Then I remembered that she could do this, only because she was human.

“I was expecting you,” Dahlia commented, still playing. “You're about ten minutes late.”

Soundwave paused to glare. “Query: why are you not dead?”

“I admit, the poison in the water was a nice touch,” Dahlia commented, taking a glass of water beside the keyboard as she continued to play with the other hand. “Easy to perform, nearly untraceable, and if a few humans died early... well, it's an accident. One thing you got wrong, though: heavy metal poisoning takes years to happen. Not four hours. Not four minutes. And definitely not at an exponential rate of four seconds.”

She dropped the glass, which spilled its contents, fizzling ominously on the parquet amidst the cacophony of notes she produced. “Someone definitely screwed up on biological research.”

“Statement: So you know. Confirmation: baiting me?”

“The program,” Dahlia said, “contained a memory from Jazz.”

“Rebuttal: Jazz was destroyed.”

That was my cue, to loop one arm around his helm-port. “You need an update. Let's help.”

And I rammed the drive into a port where I was sure it hurt, before I leapt away from his tentacles.

Soundwave froze, optics flashing red and violet before he keeled over. “I- Impossible...Decepti- cons...”

Dahlia's fingers stopped.

Slowly, the woman walked out, hands rising to the ceiling, eyes wide and, I noticed, a fading electric blue. All attention was on her now, the star of the stage.

“The raven himself is hoarse,” said she, “that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts: unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood. Stop up the access and passage to remorse, that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between the effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, and take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, wherever in your sightless substances you wait on nature’s mischief. Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes, nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, to cry “Hold, hold!””

Then she dropped her hands, and the spell was broken. “Okay, we're done.”

“I don't think you've channelled Lady Macbeth enough,” I innocently pointed out. Then a clap of thunder resounded overhead.

Dahlia looked to the fallen Soundwave, the one who had a cocktail of the human experience currently floating around in his processor. “ Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done .”

“Ah-pep-pep. The last line.”

“He's not dead,” Dahlia sighed, theatrically assuming a poor-little-me position. “Fine. Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?”

A smattering of applause from the concert hall, as from its ranks of ripped seats and cannibalised elevations rose the Autobots amassed on Earth.

“Magnificent,” Optimus applauded. “For a moment I believed you to be Lady Macbeth.”

Dahlia faked a curtsy. It would look complete if only she had all of her hair.

Soldiers on base tended to avoid us, with some staring at the striped long-eared cap that trailed from her head. Dahlia ignored all of them to consider the piano we had brought to Diego Garcia, and burst into tears of joy. The piano was something of a marvel, and led to a discussion of the roles of music in Cybertronian society, and a pity that the composition of Primus's praises had not granted variety to Golden Age-era music. Ratchet hadn't been happy when Dahlia had won that argument, and I won the right to carry Dahlia around the island from him.

“Prowl is someone with the most hidden depths I have met,” Dahlia observed as we drove around the island. Well, I drove, and Dahlia peered out through the open windows of my alt-mode. The trapping and subsequent imprisonment of Soundwave had drained the strength from her, leaving her a balding husk of lethargy.

“Really?” I spoke through the radio I'd cannibalised from the first Decepticon we took down.

“Of course. Because you expect him to be boring, and sometimes he seems so, but then Prowl does something that is entirely unexpected,” Dahlia reflected. At least she was lucid this time.

“I know, I know. Isn't he just fun?”

“The Jiang Ziya of the Autobots,” Dahlia agreed, musing. “It makes it difficult for him, to get along with others without commanding them, I imagine.”

“Hmm,” I thought about it. “Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it.”

“And people always think that he's crushing their fun,” Dahlia hit the point right there. “What they never realise is that his understanding is different from theirs. So they think he is prickly, but they never consider that he could be right. And by the rules of probability, he probably is, most of the time.”

I had no idea if she was lucid now.

Waves lapped at the beaches, and I recalled the smell of the beach; salt and waves and coconuts. And the pool of energon, vacuumed from the floors of an electromagnetic vault after the Allspark's miracle to be dumped here, far from the rest of the base until we could figure it out.

“There are three pertinent questions,” Prowl observed as I wheeled past the exaltation of Autobots stationed around the fragment of the Allspark, Dahlia still within me. “What caused it, for starters. Would it drain the powers of the Allspark further? What would it mean?”

Plucking serenely at the strings of the violin she brought along, Dahlia barely lifted her head. “What's that?”

“When we were in Shanghai, the Allspark started bleeding energon,” I muttered back.

The fountain of energon on Diego Garcia looked and smelled like itself. Since energon more or less looked like black sludge upon mining, the fountain of pure blue energon where some idjit dropped a copper transistor in was a welcome change. Unfortunately, it was the first time any Cybertronian had seen a fountain of energon, much less the very concept of it, and a pool of energon, while inefficient as a means of storage, was enough to drive a Cybertronian with awe and... and wishing that it had happened before this war happened.

Dahlia stirred, and perched behind her, Pizzicato gave a chirrup as she kept plucking. “ Aimo aimo nendel rushe ... uchinarase ima shouri no kane o... koko wa arata na ware no hoshi... ”

My wheels skidded to a halt as the Allspark... well, it began bleeding energon. At the same time, the radio picked up the song she hummed, and with it...

An inescapable signal left Earth, and headed out towards the masses of space, echoing with the message of Optimus Prime with the same implacable call. That Earth, that Sentinel's slumbering location upon the Earth' s natural satellite, that somehow, this planet of blue and green lay connected to the super-ancient civilisation of Cybertron, that-

Now toll the bells of victory, for this place is my new planet, Dahlia sang as the Allspark bubbled energon and we Cybertronians, who were once gods, could only behold this miracle. Now wave our flags above our heads, for this place is the new land of God.

From the radio came an answering bellow, powerful and implacable enough that I nearly transformed right there, nearly tossing her out. Dahlia sat straight up, breath hitching as the radio gave its reply right there before dying in a fizz of sparks. My spark could have given out, at the answer of Cybertron's traitor, the first Decepticon.

The monster of Cybertron, made alive and coming .

Chapter Text

I'd been seeing General Morshower a lot more since I came back with crashing Hotchkiss Gould Industries. I'd got his name a lot more on supposedly top-secret documents that we'd stolen, and the fallout was a definite tension between Autobot and Americans. The cherry on the top, though, was the general's speechless expression when confronted with the sight of Dahlia, now resting in the very wheelchair he was calling about to ask why we had suddenly requisitioned it.

“Ms Su is still suffering from malignant tumours coursing through her bloodstream,” Ratchet gave his medical opinion. There was also a barely hinted threat: You and I will be having words if you say otherwise, bub.

“I'm sorry, Ms Su.” The general actually apologised, very contritely.

“Many thanks.” The damage, however, was done as Dahlia silently turned away and motioned for Pizzicato to wheel her out. “I have a headache. Good day, gentlemen.”

“The times of the energon bleeding match Dahlia's practise sessions,” Prowl unveiled the spread diagram that proved my worry. “Are you saying that... the Allspark is responding to the music?”

“I don't know,” I answered. I could have brought it up with the others, but the way Optimus was, it was bound to get blown up out of proportion, and this was not the time to make Dahlia a target. Prowl was the rational one, and thus I had hunted him down to explain the problem immediately.

Thankfully, Prowl accepted me at my word. “We must conduct a test. If all of Earth's music does this to the Allspark, the Decepticons would be more receptive to abandoning this planet if we announce this fact, which could open negotiations with the Decepticon high command to end the war at its root cause; energon shortages. If the rule applies only to acoustic music, we can still negotiate. If Dahlia is the only one who produces such a reaction to the Allspark...”

He trailed off. “Then, we must tell Prime.”

“He'll overreact,” I made a face.

“But he can keep a secret,” Prowl reasoned. “Those of us who work regularly with the humans on a closer basis – Ironhide, Bumblebee and yourself, on top of Ratchet – need to know the situation to monitor for any such activity. Our allies from NEST, who already know about the information you got using Dahlia's identity beforehand, need to know a rough outline but no further. Since in the absence of truth rumour abounds, we need Dahlia to look such that our actions can be disguised as concern for a close friend. Then we need to determine causes, which we start from human music. Any music.”

“We should be giving the science to Wheeljack or Q to handle,” I commented as I wheeled the borrowed speakers towards the Allspark.

“With less explosions should we conduct it, surely,” Prowl's dry tone belied his worry towards our newest charge.

'Every Breath You Take', 'My Heart Will Go On' and 'Mack the Knife' drew no reaction from the Allspark, though it made for a pleasant serenade. Pulling out the instrumentals made no change. Then I whistled Pizzicato over to perform 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.

Following that half-assed attempt, I used my own radio to play music, getting to the Beatles and through most of what the humans called the Eighties music scene to test for effect. No luck.

What was she thinking, I pondered. Sometimes I didn't understand Dahlia Su; a human who nearly cheats to win, enjoys playing the type of game that would have the Senate and the High Courts of Cybertron up in fritz for decavorns, and would sit at the edge of a building to kill me if I proved a threat... and when she made music, it was the most sublime experience, not knowing somehow, those beats came from a human mind, a mind that expired within a vorn or two at best. Humans kept sprinting along the path of life, burning out and yet accomplishing things in the wisp of their lifetime.

The fact that they had only one life to live seemed to have made it all the sweeter for them.

“In this farewell,” I started, “there's no blood, there's no alibi... 'Cause I've drawn regret, from the truth of a thousand lies...do let mercy come, and wash away...”

I trailed off at Prowl turning his helm to me with a quizzical look, but we were distracted as energon bubbled. For that moment, we watched as a trickle of energon flowed down, however small, but it was enough to prove it.

“What I've done,” I flatly stated.

Rejoice, her words came back to me. For on my side, I have the strongest impulse of the spirit, and you are on my side too.

A meeting of the officers on Earth was a bit different. For one, we were all standing in open air. For another, it tended to be conducted in short-range comms, and later one of us would tell Bumblebee. For the last... it didn't usually involve a music discussion.

“I know the humans have some nice beats, but I'm fairly sure that they aren't divine hymns to praise Primus,” was Ironhide's flat answer.

“Never mind that,” Prowl produced the point diagram, the video he made of our impromptu experimentation, Pizzicato, and my own attempt in both Cybertronix and human songs. “The Allspark is clearly responding to music, no matter the media or instrumental accompaniment. There are, however, a few restrictions upon this particular ability to call upon divinely sourced energon, the divine source in question being the Allspark. One primary restriction, is that there must be a source of Transformium or Cybertranium within the instrument.”

“Lazerbeak's spark-strings is still in her violin,” Ratchet recalled. “Not to mention that Transformium in Dahlia's body.”

“Second,” Prowl continued, “the music must be produced by a sentient being. Speakers or a drone like Pizzicato do not seem to have the will. The last condition appears to have leanings towards musical inspiration, of a sort. I say musical, in the sense that the songs in question seem to be a form of performed metrical speech.”

Ratchet frowned. “The Allspark shard is still alive, and it seems to be rebuilding itself every time it bleeds. Are you saying that we could have averted an entire war by talking to it?”

“I have been thinking for a long time,” Optimus announced. “Ever since we have met Dahlia, I have been considering the reasons for why her words and performances held such a sway amongst us. Why the humans have such a rich storytelling culture, whereas we have lost our history with the Allspark. And now with this... revelation, perhaps my theory might not be so far-fetched.”

All the officers must have leant forward as one. “Yes?” Ratchet demanded. “Get on with it.”

“We regard creation as one of the tangible, the visible,” Optimus patiently got through. “Humans regard creation as both tangible and otherwise; their academic fields of the arts are rich, though it came at the cost of their ability to manipulate the environment. Yet the programming is similar. If we accept that music as a form of programming with the... illocutionary intent... of sustaining life, then the Allspark might simply be accepting the programming and the result is energon, our lifeblood.”

We thought through the idea, comms shooting back and forth. It really wasn't a bad theory. Aside from Cybertronix, the Allspark has spent time in the company of humans, and records from the defunct Sector Seven reveals that humans could coax the Allspark to bring their technology to life. Life was, after all; both the act of birth, and the bit about living and sustaining. It made sense that the Allspark could do more than one act, however miraculous that act.

“Do we tell her?” I finally asked.

We fell silent.

A human who could basically sing energon into being was one of those entities that were so crazy and implausible as to be magical, but the relationship of science and magic was often so fuzzy in human view it really didn't matter so much sometimes. What about the Decepticons, who would seek to possess her? Or the humans themselves, who could have this overwhelming leverage over all Cybertronians scattered throughout the stars? Or Dahlia herself, however dispassionate she might act?

The source was also short-lived and fragile, and dying. All three which were not good to open any discussions on, since the half-life of the source was inversely proportional to the success of any hypothetical negotiations with Decepticon high command. And, as human history recorded, the focus of the war might shift from the Allspark to Dahlia. The humans would become further involved in his fratricidal war of ours. Dahlia's opinion, however strong, would become misplaced, her opinion and choice consistently ignored for the sake of security and strategic value.

“We tell her,” Optimus decided. “And we hope.”

Dahlia took the news better than we thought. Her feverish eyes then looked up, before she rasped: “Yeats, the leanan sidhe.”

“She is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes." Optimus quoted. “The Gaelic poets die young, for she is restless, and will not let them remain long on earth — this malignant phantom.”

Which was so prescient on so many levels I had no idea how to relate it. “And the Allspark?”

“O Muses, O high genius, aid me now! O memory that engraved the things I saw, Here shall your worth be manifest to all!” she quoted.

Search: muse.

{Google → Wikipedia: The Muses (Ancient Greek: Μοῦσαι Mousai; perhaps from the o-grade of the Proto-Indo-European root *men- "think" [from which mind and mental are also derived, see Oxford English Dictionary]) in Greek mythology, poetry and literature, are the goddesses of the inspiration of literature, science and the arts. They were considered the source of the knowledge, related orally for centuries in the ancient culture, that was contained in poetic lyrics and myths.

(skip portion on irrelevant bits)

The Muses were both the embodiments and sponsors of performed metrical speech: mousike (hence the English term "music") was just "one of the arts of the Muses". Others included Science, Geography, Mathematics, Philosophy, and especially Art, Drama, and inspiration. Some authors invoke Muses when writing poetry, hymns or epic history. The invocation typically occurs at or near the beginning, and calls for help or inspiration, or simply invites the Muse to sing through the author.}

The invocation typically occurs at or near the beginning, and calls for help or inspiration, or simply invites the Muse to sing through the author.

“Uhm,” I finally said once the sheer thought of humanity's prescience despite their fragility, insanity and general otherworldliness was done. So much of Cybertron focused on the future, so much was dedicated to prediction and algorithms... that we really did not know much of our own history. That the spectre of the Fallen could cast such a pall upon us did not take well, that we were unprepared, that no one had prepared us for facing such a threat again in the future.

“Question,” Dahlia said. “If... an ancient human... had seen a Cybertronian make planet-fall, and stand up afterwards... and, with embellishment in the darkness... what would they see?”

What would they see?

I had lived as a human, seen the world with their limited vision and scope of imagination. I had sensed their world with their five or six senses, because their instinct was good and unlike any in-built programming a Cybertronian would have. Seeing the fog of San Francisco roll in, seen how they could turn statuary into the horror of a Cybertronian, seen the zest of their life. Seen how their ignorance led them to invent vampires and werewolves and- and...

“Angels,” I realised.

“Angels,” said the Pythia of Diego Garcia, “falling from heaven. Why do angels have wings? Because an angel must fly. If I can imagine it, then someone before me must have imagined it. If someone had, Sector Seven might have picked up on it. And the reason that so much records that I read during my chemotherapy sessions-”

She stopped as the blood dripped from her nose, but it was done. The veneer of wisdom shattered to show a bald woman, now trapped in a wheelchair and clinging onto her violin with the most of her strength. A helpless woman, an outsider of a war she had no place in but found herself involved, adapting as best as she could with what she had, and still succeeding at it...

The wisdom in humanity's accelerated culture and imagination scope had given us ideas. Ideas that could be answered by the satellite imprisoned with us.

Once awake, Soundwave just let his tentacles play over his restraints. Though Soundwave might have mass-shifting technology, the sabot rounds pointed at him would probably ensure that he died messily and quickly while six Autobot warriors subdued him. He was also looking at the container of energon. “Question: why give me energon?”

“Yeah, why are we giving energon to the Decepticreep?” Sideswipe asked.

“You are starving,” Optimus answered serenely. “And we have plenty, with more to come.”

“Confirmation: you have found a source of energon on this planet.”

“Yes.”

“Statement: energon mine?”

“The Allspark shard was quite obliging.”

Soundwave sharpened his optics, but accepted the energon. “Energon: good. Soundwave- will answer nothing.”

“We understand that the Fallen still walks the stars,” Optimus started. “And he is coming. We know that Sentinel Prime sleeps on the Moon, and your Decepticon officers did not harm him. Even if your loyalty to... Megatron will not permit you to speak, please answer me. For the sake of our lost home.”

“Confirmation... yes.”Soundwave paused. “Reason: he hates this planet.”

“...our ancestors have been here before?” That was certainly news, despite our contrary assumptions.

“Reconfirm: yes. Reason: Primes search for stars to feed Allspark and propagate Cybertron. Energon shortage lead seven Primes to search for stars to destroy. Code of Primes restrictive to greatness of Cybertron, would feed Golden Age.” Soundwave was still Decepticon enough to mock, at least.

“What does the Fallen want?” I asked.

“Answer: to destroy this planet. Reason: for Cybertron.”

“Cybertron is dead,” I admitted, with guilt.

“Cybertron can be saved.” Soundwave still spoke without inflection. “Cybertron can find a star, or amass enough energon from destroying the yellow star of this Sol system. Energy to warm the planet, to use solanor cells to power Cybertron. Humans to build it at no cost, for Cybertron's glory.”

Ironhide's cannons started humming, even as my servos itched for a blaster in the defence of our allies.

“Code of Primes restricted the Primes, so the Fallen built a machine to destroy the star,” Soundwave explained. “Artefact, Matrix of Leadership, was key. Seven Primes, including Prima, unable to beat Fallen; stole Matrix, hid it on this planet with their bodies. Location of machine lost to Seekers.”

“Seekers,” Optimus understood. “The planet-searching models. Some must have hidden amongst humans since the dawn of their civilisation.”

Soundwave sank back. “You will get nothing else.”

Decepticons stole the space bridge Sentinel Prime was carrying, that much we knew. And Megatron had the wits to play a long game, if he was playing both Sentinel and the Fallen. That took guts, I had to admit, and I was sure that Prowl's processor might be upgrading Megatron's danger level in his memory. Who knew that under that processor was a brain for manipulation? Humans – and Dahlia – were right, that being underestimated was sometimes best.

Optimus knelt to face Soundwave. “That energon you hold in your hand, that you have partaken of, was derived from the Allspark by a human. I have no idea why, or how. Yet, it is a miracle, and proof that this planet is more than another victim of our war. Please think on that.”

Soundwave's tentacles flicked at the canister, optics faraway into his processor now. But I think the point was made.

'What do we do now?' Ironhide commed, flexing his newly modified rotating cannons.

'We know that Seekers are on this planet, ' Prowl counted. ' We know that they might have stayed. Since Sector Seven was so obliging to amass so much information on us, and the Decepticons arrived much earlier than us, it stands to reason that certain entities might be hidden on Earth still. The records that Jazz stole from an identified Seymour Simmons-'

Indecipherable-by-human-language chatter greeted that news, along with Prime saying 'slag-sucking son of a trash can' in Cybertronix. Bumblebee was still a sore point on them.

'-reveals that the Sector had its suspicions, ' Prowl continued without missing a beat. ' We do know that energon mines could have existed on the planet, and the odds are good that those Seekers might still be planet-side, disguised as aerial vehicles and possibly in stasis.'

'But we searched every plane in the USAF registry,' I objected.

'The history of man in flight is apparently one thing worth memorialising, ' Prowl diverted us to a web-page of the National Air and Space Museum. ' So much that long-lasting vehicles spend the rest of their lifetimes being restored in such collections of dated artefacts.'

'...brilliant.'

'...and here I thought humans had no good ideas, ' Sideswipe gleefully chuckled. ' How'd you know, Prowl? '

When Prowl next spoke, it was with a measured sadness: “Dahlia said that she would take us there.”

Chapter Text

Dahlia met Soundwave once. By each other's request; Dahlia to see a Decepticon, Soundwave to witness the miracle-bringer.

“Confirm: You are Dahlia Su Daji,” Soundwave stated.

“And you are Soundwave,” Dahlia held up the loosened string. “I am told that Lazerbeak was your... dependent.”

“Reply: Yes.”

“Then I am sorry to tell you that he died.” Dahlia held up the string, now encased in a resin box. “I understand that you are the main mastermind of Hotchkiss Gould and the manipulation of Jerry Wang. I can say that I ended him in defence of my kind, and I will not apologise for it.”

“...Question: why do you tell me this?”

“I believed you would prefer to keep this, rather than not know his fate.”

The large, and dangerous, Decepticon looked from the spark-string to Dahlia. “ I know now that you are responsible. Are you not afraid of revenge?”

“Revenge is a losing game,” Dahlia related. “You are merely doing your duty for your planet. I would do the same were I in your position, with that power all of you have and not know. For that alone, I can bear no enmity against you. For Hotchkiss Gould, and others, I can bear no enmity, since this is the way of war. I have wrought vengeance for Jerry Wang, and that is enough.”

“Reply: I attempted to kill you.”

“And you failed,” Dahlia shrugged weakly. “Does it matter now?”

“For the Decepticons? Yes.”

“Things fall apart, and the centre cannot hold,” Dahlia answered. “I think you might wish to reconsider your priorities.”

Soundwave looked to the string, and to Dahlia. The communication specialist leant back in his binds. “ Answer: Keep it. The Fallen will kill you soon enough. ”

“Jazz,” Dahlia whispered as an exaltation of Autobots set out from the nearest air base towards Washington, D.C. “Recap.”

“We know that Cybertronians like this planet like their own personal resort away from home, from those records we stole in New York,” I duly recounted en route with everyone. “We got the records of old Seekers mired on the planet, to look for stars in planetary systems without sentient life. Bit of a double standard there, but oh well. And they were doing it while led by the seven leading Primes, including Prima and the one later called the Fallen. Six Primes stayed behind on Cybertron, slowly off-lined to build the Golden Age, and then... well, the war blew up on us. So now we're en route to...”

“The National Air and Space Museum,” Dahlia replied. “I'm fairly sure that the new Night at the Museum is shot here.”

This invited a collective wave of shudders and disgust from the others.

“Guys,” Dahlia chided over the improvised radio. “Sturgeon's Law, remember? It applies to everything. Or do we need to sit through 'Midnight' again?”

'Hell no,' I sighed as one of the idiot-twins started talking. 'We're not sitting throu' that again, it gave me the creeps!'

“That would be the day. I don't understand how you guys managed to learn the distinction between good and evil without a strong storytelling culture,” Dahlia stopped and coughed discreetly.

“Did we have to leave Ironhide behind to guard him?” Lennox complained over Mudflap's comm.

“Prowl and Ironhide are the best guards, and Prowl must be on hand to coordinate the assault should one happen,” Optimus relayed. “I am keen to find this Seeker as well, despite risking the Allspark shard.”

“Because your civilisation and ours have been tied for so long,” Dahlia answered, “that this could not have been the only accident of fate. Before Jazz and I met, before Mission City, before you met Samuel Witwicky, before an old man found your enemy frozen in the Arctic Circle. Human civilisation itself has hosted your kind since the beginning. There are so many implications of identity, it remains to be seen if our planet could ever have escaped this war. I still love this world, no matter what, yet I wish... I wish your world was not lost to war.”

We finally stopped in front of the museum, and then I heard Prime's engine roar as Lennox and Dahlia got out.

Dahlia got a coughing fit bending over. She stopped, holding her hand before discreetly putting it by her side, carefully edging behind Lennox as the pair walked into the building, Allspark shard readied.

It took a while. Lights flashed, metal rumbled within, and we circled the museum to see its airfield and the Seeker crash out of it. Even bent double, the guy had height on Prime. I charged forward, seeing only Lennox alone.

“He's got her!” Lennox yelled. “He's got Dahlia!”

My spark froze, and I sped faster towards the old mech, transforming on one servo to kick the Seeker's cane.

“Begone, or face the fury of Jetfire!” the old Seeker bellowed, rust flaking off of his aft. “Madam, if you would hold on!”

“Jazz, stand down!” Dahlia's voice made me pause, as I sighted my main gal hanging onto Jetfire's servo. “Jetfire, a boost. Please.”

Jetfire held out one servo for Dahlia to drop onto. “They don't make frames like that anymore, do they?”

“This is an authentic human body,” Dahlia replied, dusting herself. “I'm using it for certain reasons. Now, set me onto the ground. Gently.”

“As you wish,” He did so, watching as Optimus transformed. “He's not a very good descendant, is he?”

“He tries,” Dahlia turned to me. “Jazz, Jetfire. Jetfire, Jazz. Jetfire, Optimus Prime. Optimus, the Seeker Jetfire. Guys, Jetfire. Jetfire, guys. And Lennox, you already know.”

“An honour, sirs,” Jetfire chuckled. “I'm in a bit of a hurry-”

“To explain your mission statement to us,” Dahlia stipulated. “And that's why you were hurrying out. Aren't you?”

“Of course, Madam Prima,” Jetfire agreed. “Despite being in a spinal-cord-based life form, do you know if the civil war is still going on? Who is winning?”

Dahlia made a face to me, which basically communicated that she was using an Indy Ploy. “To answer, the Autobots.”

“Then I am glad, that I changed sides to the Autobots, Madam Prima. So much negativity. Who wants to live a life of hate?”

“You served... my fallen brother,” Dahlia spoke in stilted tones, a simple lie.

“I did, Madam Prima. He trusted me as his lieutenant once, but he left me here to rust,” Jetfire confessed. “The original Decepticon, and your betrayer. Always an apocalypse, chaos, crisis. Terrible to work for. I remember now, my mission for the dagger's tip, and the key!”

“So you do remember,” Dahlia pronounced. “And this mission?”

“To search for new sources of Energon, by destroying suns,” Jetfire pronounced. “We were produced for that purpose, we Seekers. Seven Primes, including the Fallen and yourself arrived, each with a Seeker contingent. You built a machine to make energon by destroying the sun, but discovered the local sentient life before it could be activated. Somehow, though... when I found out, the other Seekers and I had been cast into orbit, leaving me with the sight of watching your off-lining. You have survived in these spinal-corded-beings for so long, Madam Prima, it is a testament to the strength of your spark.”

Optimus knelt down low towards Dahlia. “He believes you to be my ancestor?”

“I don't think he aged that well,” Dahlia answered quietly. “It gives him... normalcy, I think. Something about my spark-signature. It's more believable than the idea that a learned society such as yours did not extensively replicate written records about the history of your species.”

“History had been an art long lost when the Senate took power,” Optimus murmured, but he looked slightly awkward at the jab. Dahlia hadn't taken the lack of even an oral history well. “Its sole remaining practitioner, Alpha Trion, was my mentor. I was more interested in the physical sciences than the... musical sciences.”

“You should have listened to him,” Dahlia coldly answered, before turning back to Jetfire. “So, we must locate or possess the machine before the Fallen does, then?”

“Of course. It is located- Which planet am I on?” Jetfire abruptly swayed. “The Matrix of Leadership is the key the Fallen would need, the key the six ancient Primes sealed with their bodies.”

“Do you still have contact with your former master?” Dahlia pointedly ignored the question.

“I... may have,” Jetfire hedged.

“I must speak to him. It is essential to our plans.”

Optimus and I exchanged comms with the rest so fast that it would be impossible to write on them, but the fact of the matter was that Jetfire sounded a lot more like a dial-tone as he contacted the Fallen in the end.

Then it picked up.

“You have some gall to contact me now, Jetfire,” The threat was cold and deep and slightly worse than Megatron's booming.

Dahlia inhaled through her mouth, still wiping her nose discreetly, or as discreetly as her face allowed. “Hello.”

“...Who is this?”

“My name is Dahlia. Jetfire tells me that I am Prima, dwelling in this earthly shell of a human being,” Dahlia answered. “I bear no memory of the encounter, save that you are the only soul I know can help me.”

There was a long stretch of awkward silence. The kind of horrified silence everyone had when one of us was calling the legendary monster short of an eldritch abomination.

“I am trapped,” Dahlia answered. “So everyone says. I live upon this blue planet, this planet of unchecked life and death. I am here. I am waiting.”

“You will continue to defend the blue planet, Prima?”

“I must. It is my home now. Your Decepticons have fallen. Stand down.”

The Fallen laughed, cutting a burst of static across the lines. “ I will meet you soon, dearest. Jetfire will protect you with his spark. Better than the other faithless curs. ”

The call ended, and Jetfire sank down to his strut joints, shaking.

“That... did not sound like what the Fallen should be,” I objected at last.

“The Fallen is your fairy tale,” Dahlia rebutted, hiding her hand. “He can be as affable or menacing as he likes, but he is still dangerous. It reminds me of a human story, sometimes.”

“In a way that means that good wins?” Sideswipe asked. No one answered.

Dahlia lifted her head to find the old Seeker discreetly scratching his aft. “Jetfire.”

“Itchy, wretched rust-” Jetfire about-switched so fast I would have thought it an illusion. “Madam?”

“Teleport us to the tomb,” Dahlia replied. “Please.”

“I have my own issues, I don't have time for this!” Jetfire complained. “Earth, terrible name for a planet, might as well call it 'Dirt'. Planet 'Dirt'.”

Dahlia coughed, and this time I could see the blood spattered on her hand as her nose dribbled some more.

“Jetfire,” Dahlia rasped as the ancient Seeker looked down and gasped. “I understand that you have sacrificed much. I need you to sacrifice a bit more for me, very well. Then... take us to the machine.”

“Madam Prima!” Jetfire insisted, horrified at the blood.

“This body was not meant to contain the soul of a Cybertronian,” Dahlia softly whispered, with the sorrowful sadness that came with lethargy. “The human philosopher Confucius once said that wisdom can be contained by three forms: the noblest method of self-reflection, the simplest method of imitation, and the bitterest method of experience. It is from the last that I have learned how to be human.”

“On the Allspark it be, I will take you to your lost brothers,” Jetfire quietly promised. “Come, Primes, there is no time to waste!”

“What, wait-!” I threw myself, tagging along as ozone burned and electricity crackled-

The space bridge activated.

Earth has seven continents, hosting just under two hundred states, with an estimated five thousand ethnicities, with even more thousands of different languages and their varied dialects. There is no reason to suspect that alien planets should be any less varied. Yet Cybertron was plainly a hunk of rock, mainly urban with a smattering of mountains reserved for military guard training in harsh terrains.

It is very odd, how Cybertron's mastery of distance also led to its limit in terrain variety. For example, we landed in mountainous desert terrain, directly before a mausoleum built into the stone and framed by funky statues and jackal heads . It felt a lot like back home.

Optimus landed with a crouch to cradle Dahlia in his servos.

“I once was lost, but now am found...” Dahlia sang softly under her breath as she clambered down from the Boss's lowered servo. “Thanks, Optimus. Jetfire? Are we in the right place?”

“Certainly. Why?”

'Cause it's from a Grandpa Blackbird who couldn't even figure out what planet he's on? But I heroically restrained myself.

“If the Matrix is here, then it will take forever to search for it,” Optimus pondered.

“We got a limit to digging through solid rock,” I whistled, walking in after Dahlia and Jetfire. “In defence of Grandpa Blackbird, though, this is a big doorway.”

Jetfire discreetly kneed me with his cane. Fraggard.

Dahlia pulled her pack and violin close, extracting a small water bottle. She took a long swallow, before dribbling some onto the dry stone. “Should water be flowing at a tangent of the apparent incline?”

“What?”

Dahlia rapped on each of the walls. “Say I'm an Egyptian contractor. I'm cutting into the rock face, bringing stone to shape for the tomb of Pharaoh. You guys are about three tonnes each at minimum to be an effective fighter, and six of you guys together are going to be noticeable on rock, even assuming that this area is geologically constant. So, if I'm right, I'm going to be an angry contractor because... Jazz, shoot that wall, please.”

“Huh? Oh, right?” I fired at the far wall Dahlia was pointed at, which blew up predictably, cracking to reveal glyphs of Cybertronian written on...

A cold breeze blew through, sending Dahlia into a fit of coughing that caused blood to spatter on wet stone. And tempered support metal.

“Oops.” Dahlia shakily wiped at her face, smearing blood dripping from her nose all over the skin.

“Dahlia?” I asked as she dropped her pack.

She drew out her cellphone, switching it to a miniature light onto the spattered... metal. “What... happened?”

“They stood here, wasting away of energon starvation to perish, oxidise and rust, like my wretched self,” Jetfire growled. “To protect the key and this planet.”

Dahlia frowned, peering towards some more of the ancient Primes' structural frames. “Does energon stain?”

“Yes. Blue,” Optimus supplied.

“Any chance of a...” Dahlia paused, considering. “When you guys get stabbed, do you bleed through multiple points, or is there just one point, at the puncture?”

“One point. But protocols usually kick in to stop the flow of energon temporarily,” I tucked my head to glance as Dahlia ventured within the tomb carefully. “Why?”

“I don't really want to know how much energon one must lose to paint all these bones copper blue,” Dahlia shuddered, coughing from within the large hole. “Who would have thought that the old man would have so much blood in him?”

“T- That's creepy, don't channel the Lady Macbeth now, please.” I shuddered once my optics picked up the signs and minor radiation of spent energon spatter. “And... odd. Why would the Primes deliberately bleed energon if they were hiding the Matrix with their own bodies?”

We sharpened our optics, peering closer before Optimus set to work carefully removing the large stones placed by humans of millennia past, uncovering more structural frames. “This Prime... the struts in the digits are broken. And these scratches along the chassis could be pre-mortem wounds, though Ratchet would have to conduct an analysis. The black patina is from magnetite.”

“I need some more light,” Dahlia called. I obliged with a floodlight into it. “Thank you. This Prime... this can't be right. If they willingly gave up their lives, why are they terrified?”

“Got proof?” I asked. In answer, I received a ping of night-vision cameras. From Optimus's pause, he received the same ping. And I opened the files to peer at them. Well... they weren't going to win photography competitions, but Dahlia was right. The terror was clear, even in the stark lighting.

“Unless they didn't,” Optimus related quietly. “There are more mysteries to the case of the Fallen now.”

“But why such terror?” I asked.

“Immurement,” Dahlia answered loudly. “There's probably still half a foot of stone between the mausoleum and the tomb, so the original part of this place was probably much thicker. From the tight fit, I'm thinking...”

“Well, then!” Jetfire snapped, the space bridge crackling around him. “Do you have the Matrix, Madam?”

“Jetfire... how does the space-bridge work?” Dahlia's voice drifted from inside the tomb.

“That's an excellent question,” Jetfire beamed, cheerful for a former Decepticon. “It sends matter from one point to another, displacing the matter in the old space, if any.”

“Can someone use it on people beside themselves?”

“Why, certainly!”

“Why?” I demanded as Dahlia stumbled back from the inside of the cave, carrying something wrapped in her jacket.

“I'm thinking...” Dahlia swallowed, wiping the blood from her face as she spoke, “...someone teleported the Primes into the mountain, leaving them to die of starvation via extreme immurement, and locked the Matrix with the last Prime surrounded by the bodies.”

Optimus made a noise of horror through his dentæ. “That is... that is...”

“Can the Fallen use space bridges?” Dahlia asked Jetfire.

“...Yes.”

“Jetfire,” Dahlia ordered. “Go back to the museum- mausoleum. The mausoleum I dug you out of. Get the yellow-green Cybertronian, Ratchet, he's a medic. Optimus, send notice, please.”

“They have received notice,” Optimus neutrally answered as Jetfire winked out of existence with a crack.

“Great.” Dahlia frowned. “There's several discrepancies with the stories here. For one, too much bleeding... er, energon bleeding. For another, it's too tight a fit in the natural rock, even assuming that all the Primes packed themselves into a really large cave. Lastly, the terror.”

Another ping, and I reviewed the faces of the Primes. Five of them were screaming in terror, and the sixth, the one holding the Matrix, had his optics closed an at peace. The serenity was both inconsistent and suspicious.

“One thing I don't understand,” Dahlia commented, holding up the Matrix of Leadership. The Matrix took the form of a boxy, glowing thing that floated in her palm. “The only one with a peaceful expression was holding this. If the Fallen was after the Matrix... then why leave it here?”

Chapter Text

“ To all passengers, this is your captain speaking, we are currently thirty thousand feet above sea level, and moving at Mach 2... and we didn't have tropical storms in my day, we had cosmic storms that blew us off course and the Primes were debating whether to turn back or not. Of course not, we had to go on-! ”

Dahlia thumped a foot down, seated in the cargo hold with the Matrix. Jetfire fell silent as she switched on her personalised comm device, as we called the improvised radio. “This is codename Meister, operatives Saxophone and Pianoforte in the cargo hold of the Lockheed. Pilot, please remain calm, our current entourage is simply an ornery mech. Jetfire, how long have you been around?”

And then she let him babble as she poked at a ball of yarn with a few hooks, or something close to it. Crocheting was a new hobby she'd picked up when the rest of her music sheets had been spent and her hands kept shaking too much to write music. “Aiyah, so a space bridge isolates either side of the gateway, was it? That might explain why we didn't fragment into pieces through interpenetration with the air molecules.”

“Exactly right, Madam. You might not remember it, but you were the only one who could handle the Fallen during our scouring of the galaxies. Why, he could barely function outside of warfare some days! Ah, it feels good, the winds on this planet. But the best winds in any atmosphere is certainly back around that star, what was it...”

Turbulence blew us about, and Jetfire's voice turned into ire. “Careful, that's the bodies of six Primes!”

“Well, when you guys suddenly disappear and I'm sent to pull six dead Transformer bodies out of the Gulf of Aqaba to run bloody forensic examinations on!, I think I'm entitled to a bit of rage!” Lennox shouted back.

“I'm a doctor, not a forensic examiner!” Ratchet joined in. “Dammit, the only one with experience in murder cases is Prowl! Dahlia, if you're right do you have any idea what kind of ramifications this would have?!”

“Cybertron's first murder case?” Dahlia asked.

“OFF-PLANET!” Ratchet echoed. “We were peaceful and just! And now you've dug up the creator of all Primes, Prima himself, and you're suggesting that those Primes were murdered at once by the Fallen!”

“The shell does not matter, medic!” Jetfire roared. “Prima herself remains alive!”

“Dahlia is emphatically not Prima!” Ratchet shot back. “You senile aft, just 'cause the human's got a spark signature doesn't mean that... that a human body can hold a spark.”

But it can, I wanted to argue. Yet Dahlia was still crocheting slowly and patiently, and until then I had to make sure that she was fine. Better than implying that an ancient Prime was still living amongst humans for the past ten millennia.

With the bodies respectfully covered in large parachutes and laid out all over the airfield, Ratchet was dismantling each and every one of them in double-quick time. There was not enough hangar space to store them all, pitifully. Overhead, thunder rumbled as a tropical storm seemed to advance forward. Diego Garcia would be facing rain soon.

“So?” Lennox finally asked. “Ratchet? Did they...?”

“She's right,” Ratchet finally declared to the assembled members of NEST. “There's definite foul play involved in one death, at least. The rest of them died of immurement.”

All of this time, Dahlia was holding onto the Matrix of Leadership beside Optimus, who had not left one particular corpse. The body of Prima was laid out, sweetly serene despite the horrible rust that had taken over him but chest splayed open.

“But Prima...” Ratchet sucked in air through his vents. “Prima died by destruction of the spark chamber.”

Optimus raised him helm from contemplating his ancestor. “Prima was... murdered?”

“Yes,” Ratchet leant down to grab one of the other Primes' hands, showing the blue energon stains. “Of course, it would take a full memory retrace to figure it out, and all of these parts are too old for memory reconstruction. Besides, we already know that foul play was involved, with the Fallen and Jetfire. But it makes no sense. Why offline one mech by a perfectly quick method, but leave the others to die like this?”

“We must still try to make sense of things,” Prowl firmly established, kneeling next to another Prime, this one with the broken digit struts. “They were in a fight. From their expressions, we can only suppose that Prima left first. There is, after all, no peace to be gotten from dying amongst the terrified faces of one's own kin. Ratchet... how many different types of wounds did Prima sustain?”

“Rough estimate?” the CMO grunted. “Broken pede, stab wounds, fragmented armour plates-”

“With more than one weapon?”

“Yes, certainly-” Ratchet stopped. “What are you suspecting?”

“The suspicious points of the case,” Prowl stated. “Firstly, the spilled energon.”

“So much energon,” Ratchet shook his head. “Enough to turn all the iron into magnetite inside. Damn the Fallen...”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed. “Too much energon. Second, why leave the Matrix here? And thirdly, the sudden change in modus operandi. Another few stabs would have worked. Why go to so much trouble, to trap the Primes and leave them to die a slow death, and still leave Prima and the Matrix with them? There are easier ways to dispose of the corpses. No, that was a true mausoleum for the Primes, hidden with the treasure of the Dynasty, the Matrix of Leadership. But why? Why would the Fallen choose this manner, if he was as power-hungry as he claimed?”

“But there's no answer we can get,” I pointed out as Dahlia slowly wheeled away with Optimus's help.

“Could this help?” Dahlia asked, holding up the Matrix. The artefact floated up to Optimus's servo, and Dahlia smiled wanly as she glanced towards Prima.

“Beware the Ides of March,” she mistily imparted.

“The ides of March...” Lennox frowned. “Julius Caesar? Et tu, Brute?”

“Let's rehash,” I clapped my servos together. “Seven Primes come to this planet. For some reason, we assume foul play, and Prima dies first, we think. The remaining six fight, and the one called the Fallen solves the problem by tele-fragging the remaining five into a mountain. He then hides Prima in the midst of that mountain, amongst the brothers he just immured, forgetting the great treasure of the Matrix with Prima's corpse, and he leaves the planet without fragmenting its star for energon and preventing another Seeker from coming back to discover his treason.”

“It's not consistent,” Prowl argued. “The Matrix, and the star, all indicate otherwise. Circumstantially, logically there is no reason for Earth to be alive.”

“It is impossible as I state it,” I agreed, “and therefore I must in some respect have stated it wrong.”

“The only remaining option is to ask Prima,” Optimus held up the Matrix. “Only the Fallen could have known. They must have given up their lives to shield the Matrix with their bodies.”

“Faulty logic,” Prowl argued. “It is possible, but every horrified faceplate here attests otherwise. These Primes did not willingly go into that mountain, Optimus.”

“But why leave the Matrix with Prima?” Ironhide repeated. “Why leave it here? The Fallen could have won.”

Dahlia considered the spread of bodies.

“What do you think?” Sideswipe hissed to us.

“I think no matter the reasons, seven of Cybertron's sovereign heads died on this planet,” Dahlia responded. “Politically speaking, we are as liable as the Fallen. Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar.”

Jetfire bowed down, looking troubled. “Madam Prima, are you well?”

“You have found your Prima,” Dahlia objected. “Why do you call me that now? Prima is right here.”

“The frame is not as important as the spark.” In answer, Jetfire reached a servo out towards the Matrix to hold it up. I watched as it crumbled into dust from his servos, that fell into Dahlia's lap and started reforming itself into the Matrix of Leadership once more.

“You must be Prima, Madam,” Jetfire stated with the fanaticism of the demented within the ensuing silence of the Matrix being cradled in her hands. “Only a Prime is worthy to hold the Matrix.”

What little colour she had left fled. Optimus turned his helm, steadily regarding the Matrix in her lap. Ironhide's cannons hummed, and Jetfire bristled with fire-power and angry Seeker.

“But I'm human,” Dahlia shook her head. “I can't be Prima. Prima is one of- Prima is right there! The Matrix is earned, not given!”

“If a spark can be held in a human body once... why not again?” Prowl asked, very quietly.

“Because they didn't have pace-makers at the time!”

“Perhaps that is incidental.”

“Look,” Dahlia argued. “Jazz landed on me in Mission City. I carried him around in my pace-maker, and Ratchet can attest to it. There is no mechanical or computing basis upon which an ancient Prime can escape into a human how many thousand years ago, however remote those chances may be. Even if they did, we humans die before a hundred years, barely a year to you guys. He'd have to keep jumping bodies every hundred years or so, optimistically speaking, and there's still the chances of war, diseases and famine. The odds are so low that they ought to be non-existent.”

I discarded the idea. Dahlia was right, and it was sound. Yet it still didn't account for the Matrix.

“And the Matrix?” Ironhide rumbled.

“I can't use it,” Dahlia defended, holding it out to Optimus. “Keep it. Take it.”

“The Matrix chose you as an equal,” Optimus rumbled, gently.

“I don't- I can't protect it,” Dahlia looked up, her eyes flashing blue and black. “It's important to you, isn't it?”

“You are an important friend, too,” Optimus pointed out. “If there is even the slightest chance that it will help you, I can defer the Matrix. And, should there even be the chance that Prima's will exists outside of the Well of All Sparks... Prima was our ancestor. It is only right that the bearer of that will hold his Matrix.”

“Optimus,” Dahlia patiently stated. “Artefacts are useless if not borne by the right hands. You might call me a friend, but the fact remains that I am a liability. You are entrusting a precious part of your history and heritage to a literal alien of your society, history and... erm, species. On top of that, I am weak. I have a life expectancy of months, and that number is going to drop even lower if you insist that I keep this Matrix of Leadership, since every Decepticon on the planet will be gunning after me for this perceived insult. If you call me friend, you will value my life by taking this bullseye away from me.”

Faced with that sort of argument, Optimus reached out a servo for the Matrix-

Alarms went off, and soldiers were running towards the hangars.

“Decepticons!” came the rallying cry, and the staff held spellbound by Dahlia's rational arguments leapt into battle mode, except for me.

Optimus rounded on me, and it was almost amusing to see the boss-Bot worried like some female chicken over her young as he scooped Dahlia up and thrust her into my servo. “Autobots!” he bellowed. “Roll out!”

“Decepticon alert!” Epps hollered in the middle of his dash. “Decepticons!”

“Woohoo!” Sideswipe yelled, producing his guns. Despite Sideswipe's whoops of action aside, I was transforming to burn rubber to get our patient to Ratchet's med-bay once Epps had shoved her and Pizzicato into my alt-mode, Matrix and all.

“Secure the Matrix and Dahlia, Jazz!” Optimus snapped, producing his daggers.

“On it!” I snapped and burned rubber.

“Why are we going to the med-bay?” Dahlia rasped, bumping against the doors of my alt-mode as she held the Matrix close.

“Secure all personnel,” I hurriedly rushed in, waiting for her to get out. “I need to get back to the battle. Come on.”

Dahlia slowly climbed out, gasping as Pizzicato attempted to help her up. Her eyes were unfocused as she turned back to me, Pizzicato reforming to form a wheelchair around her.

“Jazz,” she gasped, “look up. What can you deduce?”

“From the sky?” I asked. “It's too bright. What do you deduce?”

“Someone removed the roof.”

I looked up. Bits and shards of metal levitated around the Fallen. A bolt of electricity, a crack of thunder, and a burst of ozone swept the med-bay. His lean form was a shadow of sticks, complete with red optics glowing. A fairy tale made manifest.

Wordlessly, Dahlia directed Pizzicato to wheel back. I transformed and drew my blaster, and started firing.

“Prima!” the Fallen roared, and with it the metallic items of the med-bay began levitating. “Prima!”

“Three-point,” Dahlia panted, grabbing a roll before it levitated off a table. Pizzicato began to reverse and swerve, and she simply unravelled the roll to loop around the Matrix. Pizzicato began to float up as she sped, and the Fallen cackled.

The Fallen ignored my blasts to simply wave a hand, concussing me with the steel support beams. It gave Dahlia the chance to escape with the drone out of the improvised hangar and out towards the maze of buildings of the base.

“Prima...” the Fallen mocked. “Hidden amongst man you might be right now, but you have my Matrix. We are going to have to catch you.”

I made a witty reply, but I forgot it as the Fallen stomped forth, debris floating in his wake to attack everything. He blinked out, before reappearing-

-and a light shone where his spark chamber would be...

The Fallen faded out, reappearing a distance away as he snarled, one foot crashing through a human building. Falling back to earth, the Matrix of Leadership landed back into Dahlia's hand, my main gal on her knees to support her weight. Kneeling to face the Fallen, Dahlia's silhouette was apparent against the backdrop of Diego Garcia and its current status as a Transformer battlefield.

“Tele-fragging,” Dahlia's words echoed in my audios. “That was how you managed to transport all those Primes. It can go both ways too, if your teleportation out of the way is any indication.”

“I should have expected that you would risk the Matrix,” the Fallen sneered, optics on Dahlia. “Humans have no regard for objects of worth.”

“Lucky guess,” Dahlia panted. “I also theorise, that there is a small window of opportunity at formation of the space bridge and re-materialisation, that matter inserted into the swapped space would displace solid material occupying the old space, regardless of density.”

“I'm not going to move,” the Fallen sneered, aiming his spear. “You might wish to remain there.”

“You might wish to move,” Dahlia made a show of examining her wristwatch before slamming the improvised radio onto the roof. She must have gotten it from within my alt-mode. “That building you're on is the centre of the base, furthest from the beaches. It also serves as a food storage warehouse. Flour is stored on the top floor. And I just told Prowl to set it on fire.”

I started running as I heard the dangerous words:

“Light her up.”

Pizzicato flew into the skies with a cry, as the Fallen was swallowed in a cloud of flame.

“Jazz, I need a pick-up stat,” came her voice through my radio.

“Way ahead of you, my main gal,” I scaled the building to grab her up. “You're a dangerous female, aren't you?”

“We need to get the Matrix to Optimus,” Dahlia stated as she climbed into my back-seat after I transformed. “Run, now!”

I dashed, wincing at the Fallen's bellow. “Dust explosion? Really?”

“I hear a lot of things when I'm an invalid,” Dahlia defended.

“Right, good for you.”

Ironhide, Arcee and the twins were taking on about five Decepticons between them, Ironhide bouncing between mobile gun-turret to slagging mechs with improvised tonfas from his cannons. We really shouldn't have introduced him to Kyoya Hibari; it gave him ideas. Sideswipe was gleefully skating about the air hangars, daggers and knives at work. The human soldiers were assembling weapons, sabot rounds- were the entire Decepticon troops here or something? There were way too many mechs.

Optimus was by the far side with the corpses, killing Decepticons. It was both awesome and brutal, to see the peaceful Prime turn to arms like this. It almost made me recall Dahlia, and how natural the ultra-violence had seemed to her, reminiscent of a time when strength meant everything.

Right as I skidded to a halt, Dahlia threw herself out, clutching at the Matrix as her violin case hung from her shoulder. She started dashing to Prima's corpse, tumbling with gasps and curses as the ground trembled under her feet. I transformed, lifting my blaster to slug a mech about to hit Prowl, who fired his own.

Reaching the body, Dahlia fumbled the tarps, climbing to raise the Matrix high in a gesture of prayer-

-the Matrix glowed with white light, as the Fallen roared and tore the building apart behind her-

-and she winked out of existence.

The Matrix of Leadership thudded to land into the spark of the Original.

Optimus slew the last 'Con, vaulting towards the corpse of Prima as the Fallen stomped over. I must have attacked him, but I didn't remember as the Fallen fought as a demented mech, even ignoring Optimus to stare at Prima. He made no move for the precious Matrix. He ignored Jetfire's triumphant kills and eventual discovery of his presence.

“The Matrix...” the Fallen murmured. “Prima, wake up...”

Silence. The Decepticons had disengaged, headed for the skies to surround us and their master. Debris was still floating about.

“Why?” the Fallen suddenly roared, and shrapnel fairly shredded a few buildings. “I did everything right! Why?! Vector Prime, I am going to end you!”

Rusted plates creaked. Thin struts began to move. Colour began to return to the greyed metal; a dirtied, stained blue along the patina of Prima's headdress. Slowly, the Original Transformer began to sit up.

“Well,” Prima finally said, in Dahlia's voice. “This explains a lot.”

Chapter Text

“Erm,” I said. It seemed an appropriate response for what kind of things were happening here.

The first child of Primus – male or female, didn't matter, the soul was female – stretched her struts. The Original's design was streamlined, definitely not bulky like Optimus or Megatron, but still possessing some sort of deadly grace and wiry strength. And now in possession of my friend's voice.

If this were one of those crazy cartoons, Prime's optics would be bugging out of his head at seeing his ancestor and the enemy of Cybertron in the same place on this seemingly backwater planet.

“I am asking you, Megatronus,” Prima continued in Dahlia's voice. “Why?”

The Fallen, or Megatronus, backed slightly. “How much do you remember? When could you speak?”

“Well enough to wonder,” Prima's frame vibrated, and the debris embedded into walls flew out, “if the... incident that led to the deaths of our brothers was of your devising too.”

The Fallen looked away. “It was... not for the purpose I intended.”

“The purpose you intended,” Prima echoed, cruelly, using her voice. I had a very bad feeling about all of this. “The one where you tried to destroy another planet with sentient life under a well-meaning yet misguided purpose? Or the one where you are endangering another planet of sentient beings, despite the numerous explanations why this is a bad idea? Or the one where I died?”

Yep. This was going to be bad. This was going to be ugly, angsty, bitter family drama. Family drama, with the kind of baggage that only came with mechs who have probably existed since the dawn of time and faced nearly everything at the dawn of the universe only to kill each other in a fit of fratricidal madness.

“And I thought Sunstreaker and I were bad,” Sideswipe commented.

“You!”

Sideswipe jumped to be addressed by the Original. “Y- Yes?”

“Energon.”

A moment of silence, Prima's servo still held up to receive energon.

Ratchet walked over with a jerry can of the stuff to drop into Prima's servo, which Prima took a deep swig of immediately.

“You have my gratitude,” The can was set onto the ground. “Another.”

Bemused, Ratchet gave Prima a cube.

“Thank you,” Prima kicked out, offering the cube of glowing fuel high up. “Megatronus. All of you Seekers, all of you who stand against my descendant and myself. If you truly seek to repent, come forth and take this, while we talk. Let this energon be as your blood!”

A proton blast shot it out of his hand.

The Fallen Prime uttered a series of clicks that I interpreted as a curse of the old vernacular, ruby optics glowing. “I am not involved in this, Prima.”

Cooling fans began to kick in, and Prima's helm tilted once the rattling of chains established Soundwave's escape attempt on the other side of the base. I then realised that, unlike the Fallen, Prima's optics were empty, cold and black and unseeing. Ironic, that the Warrior of Light was unable to perceive Primus's light. The expression of royally fragged off, though, was a bit like Optimus even without optics alight.

“Very well,” said the Original, using Dahlia's voice in the coldest approximation of the tranquil fury a Prime could be capable of. “I did say it would be as your blood.”

Crack, and one Seeker plummeted down into the salty Ocean. Crack, and another died. Crack, and two mechs joined them in the Pacific Ocean as Prima dove and bridged out with a crack, grabbing a mech in mid-air to shove halfway through a space-bridge and shut it off. The two halves of the mech crackled as they fell, spurting a fountain of energon.

Crack, and Prima reappeared. None of us commented on her paint-stained digits, or that she was standing perpendicular to the Fallen's position.

“You cannot beat me,” the Fallen whispered.

“I just have to kill you, or pummel you into submission. Where does battle valour come in?” Prima dismissed him. “You may return when it comes time to discuss talks.”

The Fallen disappeared through a space bridge, leaving us to stare at Prima.

“Prima?” Optimus asked at last.

“Yes,” Prima turned his/her helm towards the sound, the blackened empty optics all the clearer to look at. “Optimus Prime, I presume.”

Pow-wow or not, Prima's choice drew a lot of looks as every Autobot looked from Optimus to him/her.

“Could you... explain the circumstances?” Prowl asked.

“I... don't know,” Prima stopped. “Vorns ago, we heard that the Fallen was building a solar harvester on this blue planet. Despite all of my warnings, he was building it, and he would destroy it. Six others and I intervened. He was there, and he tried to persuade us to use the Matrix, to harvest energon from this star for Cybertron despite the sentient life still present. I... I have no thought of the passage of time since then. How long?”

“Approximately seventeen thousand planetary orbits,” Ratchet supplied. “And then?”

“I did not realise that my brothers believed myself possessed,” Prima raised a servo to trace the blackened optics on his helm. “They were prepared to kill me at his behest, and destroy this world's sun, despite the two reasons that it would destroy Cybertron prematurely.”

“Two reasons?” Ironhide echoed. “Not just the code of Primes?”

“Ours was a young and ignorant civilisation once, as all civilisations must be,” Prima reminded all of us. “The notion of other sentient life was rooted in deceitful races, too. They are not the most stellar of examples to compare, but there were pragmatic reasons behind the safeguarding of sentient life, and thus stand against what our adversary was. Fourteen galactic convergences later, the code was used as the sole, perhaps seemingly illogical reason why the sentients of a backwater planet on a faraway galaxy was deemed insignificant to Cybertron, and thus to enemies and allies of Cybertron.”

“This planet was important?” Sideswipe started. “Why? There are planets greater, surrounding suns of more energy, spaces without organics and bearing greater resources than this slagging planet that's being continually destroyed by the locals' own actions!”

Prima just sat there, empty optics staring into nowhere. “A horrifying truth none of you are prepared to accept.”

“You said that there were two reasons,” Optimus broke in. “The second?”

This time, Prima's black optics turned towards me, and Dahlia's voice remained unwavering as she related: “Once upon a time, I, Prima, was a human. Making my own way through life, to all intents and purposes a human being with the ability to perceive the universe that Primus's grace robbed me of. I was no pawn of great titans, I was no titan, but within the small world of humans, I felt that for once, I could decide my destiny. I was conscious only of my happiness as a mortal flesh-being, unaware that I was Prima. I awoke, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know, whether I was then Prima dreaming I was a human, or whether I am now a human, dreaming I am Prima. Between myself and the human there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the becoming of things.”

The last one threw me for a loop. I wasn't the only one, it seemed, as the Autobots around me shared looks that communicated their doubt of Prima's sanity.

“I'm sorry?” Mudflap commented. “Yo, we're a bit... confused, here.”

“You're young,” Prima replied with the certainty that young mechs should not be involved. Which meant that all non-officer personnel were quickly escorted out for us to continue the interrogation.

“Let us try that again,” Prowl stated. “Preferably without the absurdist philosophical questions involved.”

“People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect,” Prima quoted, “but actually — from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint — it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly... timey-wimey... stuff.”

Silence. I think every one of us knew that quote. It came from some of the creepiest human fiction I knew, after all.

“You did not just quote Tenth at us,” I accused. “How could you even know of it?”

“And how would you know of it?” Prima asked reasonably.

“I-” I shut my mouth. “A... friend.”

“I have no idea how to explain this to you,” Prima confessed, one servo still tracing her optics. “So I will use what you know. Do you remember the angels? The fate of their victims?”

“They were... sent back in time,” I numbly echoed.

“Sent back in time,” Prima agreed. “And dying. My body was lost to space, but my soul preserved within this body by a kind soul. In that process, he told me that my existence had became a multi-versal singularity. He eked a promise, for me to guide his twelve creations to defend against their uncle, and for them to carve their own destiny. In exchange, I would return home again. In the final battle against the Planet Eater, I would defend one of the twelve from an attack, and lose my sight in the process. That was the crucial moment when the Primes discovered that, for all of their vaunted power and ability, they too held weaknesses, imperfections and finite lifespans.

“The fear of death is the strongest impulse of the spirit. To slow the end that must come, to hide from the terror of dependency and weakness, they created a great civilisation, whose roots I left to hunt for energon amongst the stars with five others of us Thirteen, and the one I defended from the Lord of Chaos; you would call him the Fallen. I once believed that he was... grateful, if nothing else, that I had acknowledged his existence amongst the others. That gratefulness, however, was mired in doubts and fear, and amongst them the fear of death. To hunt for the blue planet, I left behind the youngest and best of us, Optimus Prime, unknowing of the destiny he would bear. Only now did I know his fate.

“As for myself, I would find the planet. I would place it under my aegis. The Fallen understood neither my actions, nor my acceptance to perish for the planet. He told me to my face-plate that the planet had driven me mad. His words must have swayed the five others, for then... then I faced the Fallen.”

“Jetfire told us,” Prowl agreed. “After he was tossed into orbit was where his story ended. What happened that would cause the Fallen to act like this?”

“I cannot tell,” she tapped her blackened optics. “I was stabbed in the back, that much I knew. But then... then the Fallen truly fell, as I heard the dying screams of the other five. That was when I felt a soft organic presence... and then I awoke into a fleshling's body. As I understood weakness, I hid my spark in the gametic cells of the fleshling and her ensuing descendants. Sometimes I awoke, and lived as a human. The passages of time meant little to me, yet human civilisation grew and built and rebuilt itself... and my last human incarnation was a musician. She was at Mission City, when a half-torn mech fell on her and hid in her pace-maker, thereby starting the sequence of events that led to my current location.”

Prima's- no, Dahlia's servos clacked onto concrete. “By ontological paradox, the history of our civilisation are tied with the future of this planet's dominant sentients. I stand before you today as Dahlia Su and Prima, your friend, and now... apparently your ancestor.”

Chapter Text

“ I am your father, ” I joked. Diego Garcia was being reassembled, rubble salvaged and casualties being treated, on top of future plans to be scripted out.

“I spent part of several million years deciding how I would present that theory, and you blow it to make Star Wars jokes at Optimus's expense,” she commented. Her frame drew several soldiers away from her, possibly due to its similarities to the Fallen, but the blank optics still made her blind. She was stuck with Ratchet in material salvage, but the bulk of her work lay in analysis. Say what you like about being out of practise, but Prima's foresight had been, and still is, legendary. “Don't feel bad. I remember the same joke occurring to me.”

“Hold on,” Sideswipe commented, now hauling crates of supplies by. “If you're like, way higher than our Prime, doesn't that make you like, Grandma Autobot?”

“And that would make you the sparkling grand-creation?” Prima archly commented in answer. “You must remember that I came from a time before Cybertron's populace grew socially sophisticated enough to split into ideologically centred factions. There's going to be a lot of values dissonance between what I consider fine and what you would accept, Optimus.”

“Yes,” Optimus sounded a bit discomfited as he polished his weapons. “I am beginning to realise that.”

“It shall be extremely complicated, Jetfire,” Prima commented to the ancient Seeker.

“As it must, Prima.”

“What will you do now?”

“If you have nothing to do, then you can help me,” Prima tapped on her blank optics. “I find myself in need of an orderly.”

The Seeker who had about one and a half of Optimus's size straightened his spine. “M- Me? But, Prima... I have served under the Fallen.”

“And that is a mark of your references,” Prima airily dismissed. “I am Prima. No matter my roots, I cannot join Autobot or Decepticon. To do so would be to invite greater enemies from the opposite faction. Likewise, I cannot accept aid in the form of personnel from the Autobots, no matter how well-meaning my descendant would be. I need you, Jetfire.”

“Prima... no,” Jetfire bowed, as low as he could while standing in the open air. “My lady.”

“I'm sorry,” Optimus abruptly announced. “Can we talk?”

Pizzicato fluttered to land on Prima's shoulder as the elder Prime rose, using some stubby sheath that was still strapped to her as a walking stick. “Of course.”

“Did I say something?” Sideswipe commented as the Primes walked away. I got up to eavesdrop shamelessly on their conversation via comms.

' I do not think hiring Jetfire is a good idea, ' Optimus was saying. ' He did choose to be an Autobot. '

' It is the only idea, Optimus, ' Prima answered. ' Consider. You have too many Autobots, and Jetfire has spent too long as the opposite side. Jetfire requires more than mere fuel if he is to keep online as an ally. To give him a position as an Autobot will not win him friends, but will only grant him revulsion. On the other hand, a purpose will motivate a mech like Jetfire. And through this purpose, a chance to atone can be achieved, and closure attained. '

' He is not your slave,' Optimus amended. 'No matter how Seekers served the Dynasty of Primes beforehand, times have changed. You cannot hold Jetfire in bondage like the Fallen. It is his free will. '

' You are very irresponsible, ' Prima answered, ' if you believe that granting Jetfire freedom at this stage would save him. I’m certain you know what became of those who were saved, but left to themselves.'

Optimus actually bristled. ' That is not the point! Jetfire has been in bondage his whole life, and this will prolong his bondage. He is obsessed over the Dynasty of Primes. He looks up to you, and through you myself. To have a Prime rely on him would destroy that respect.'

“A Seeker was built to be relied upon!” Prima spoke sharply, her tone very much like those hunting falcons I once saw at a place called the zoo. “Do you even know the purpose of a Seeker's wings? We ancient Primes could have easily created frames like ourselves, but we gave the first descendants wings. They gave us their servitude, but they gained through it a pride unmatched by how far they have risen! To find planets was the only way that they could show their gratitude! Look at Jetfire; see how he still holds his self-worth from service to my brother. To turn his back on his former master and join the Autobots, that is a choice that lost him his purpose. Then what will he do as an Autobot? Too large as a spy, too old as a fighter, too unwieldy as air support, unable to focus. A mech like Jetfire would rather martyr himself for a cause than actively serve in it, only because his programming has prepared him to sacrifice everything for his mission. He has no concept of allies. No perspective on friends. He has been alone on this planet for several millennia. Make him my orderly, and he shall have a purpose that will give him that closure.”

“It will be his choice regardless,” Optimus bristled. “You will not join us?”

“I will be your ally, but not your officer. You really must consider it laughable that I would serve the Autobot cause.”

“And why is that?” the Prime asked.

“I was human, and thus I protect the weak because I know weakness,” Prima commented. “Why do you? And don't say that it is the right thing to do.”

I was floored. Sure, Dahlia could do a lot of things, but to question Optimus Prime on protecting the weak and basically liberty?

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings,” Optimus paused. “It is also the most fragile of rights. I do not know if it is the right thing to do with absolute certainty. I do not know if saving others without the responsibility to lead them is better than not saving them. But I must try, because many have died for this right, and to stop fighting for it would be the greatest disappointment of their memory. To stop fighting for it would be to let down civilisations past and future, and myself, brothers and... friends. I'm sorry.”

“What for?” she asked, surprised.

“To ask you to join against the Fallen,” Optimus stated. “I forgot then. He was your brother, too.”

Prima's frame trembled in bare acknowledgement. “I held you as a sparkling. There were two names I could have given you. Orion Pax; the dawn of peace, as the last Prime born from the grace of creation. Optimus Prime, the best of the first. History could have changed that day if he believed that I valued your peace over your choice.”

“I forget that,” Optimus agreed. “Why did you decide against Orion Pax?”

“You were the best of us, because you had a choice,” Prima related. “Whether creation or destruction, instead of purely creation, I believed that you should choose.”

“You believed that I would not have chosen wrongly?”

“I believed that your life was pointless if you could not choose to do the right thing, if you were not allowed to be as good or bad as your spark dictated,” Prima explained. “Was that not the point of freedom; to choose to do good or bad? Of course, good and evil must come from the knowledge distinguishing the two, and freedom must also come with the freedom to take the consequences.”

“Yes,” Optimus inclined his helm. “I forget that for you, millions of years have passed, far more than any of us should live or could comprehend. I forget that the Fallen was your brother, one who fought with you against the Unmaker. You have survived an ordeal, Prima... brother- no, sister.”

“Because you were nice to me... brother.”

Silence, companionable silence, more silence- and somehow, the Primes are communicating secretly...

How does anyone talk in this silence of comms and everything? The family was screwed up.

“Call Bumblebee back.”

I would have blinked, if I still had eyelids. Prowl's statement still hung around. “What?”

“Bumblebee is the only one of us who was not present,” Prowl explained. “Apparently he is still with the human designated Samuel James Witwicky.”

“Prowl,” I explained, “the kid is Megatron's slayer. You're suggesting we pull the handler off the Witness Protection Program. Not a good idea.”

“I believe the whole point was obscurity,” Prowl cocked his head. “The humans can take care of their own.”

“Did they send a liaison capable of fragging you off?” Prowl didn't answer, but the tightening of the doors on his shoulders was obvious to someone capable of reading it. “Oh, Prowlie... I'll get the personnel transfers. You just get to the planning.”

“What I don't get was why didn't the Fallen continue after Prima?” Prowl asked.

“Someone called?” Prima's head poked in through the hangar doors. Her helm was curiously round, her nose sharpened and the frame of her optics slanted like epicanthic folds. It made her helm look a bit organic, like a fox or a bird, even as her walking stick went tap-tap.

“The Fallen refrained from attacking you,” Prowl stated. “Even with a blind warrior on our side, he should not have fled.”

“Oh,” Prima sounded amused. “That.”

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “Any thoughts?”

“Perhaps,” Prima noted, “several reasons. Falling back to regroup and re-strategise, perhaps. Or simply to escape. The Fallen can only be killed by a Prime.”

“Is that descriptive or prescriptive?” I asked.

“I knew I shouldn't have let you watch that,” Prima commented. “It's descriptive. Me- the Fallen was conceived as the guard of the entropic concept by the Great One. His attempt to comprehend entropy and chaos, which is anathema to him. It created a situation where he could not be slain by anyone, other than those who stood for order and, by fate, his brothers. It was extremely crippling to him.”

“How?” I asked.

“Because he knew that his death would only be certain at the hand of a Prime,” Prima reflected. “What kind of paranoia could have been boiling through his head, I wonder. No one else could relate to the only Prime who feared not death itself, but betrayal. There are three other known Primes. Vector Prime we don't know if he's still active, and two of us.”

“I'll give that,” I admitted.

“It's still not consistent,” Prowl insisted. “The logical method would be to eliminate you first. You were recently awoken, and you had no weapon.”

“I did,” Prima held up her walking stick.

“That's-”

The handle twisted, and Prima drew a blade from within. It shone with the clear blue of a blue star. The blade was not energon-based, but... yeah, she was armed in the same way Supremes were big . Some of those could be a small moon.

Prowl's servos met mine. I clung to his servo, still watching as the blade went back into its sheath. The blinding power of the sword dissipated into darkness, leaving us awed.

“My main gal,” I commented, “please never scare us like that again. It's not everyday that we're confronted with a legendary planet-killing weapon.”

“I never confirmed nor denied anything,” Prima answered, a touch sadly. “He needed time to prepare for our next encounter, so he ran. He is family, after all.”

I think the Fallen ran from the sword of Grandma Autobot.

Then Bumblebee called in with news of Decepticon presence-

Predictably, we got news of a Decepticon ordered burglary at the Witwicky house of a second Allspark shard. While breaking and entering was generally neutral to both sides, only the 'Cons had reason to spy so closely as to realise that the kid had unwittingly brought a shard of the Allspark back home with him.

What? We weren't that morally pure in SpecOps.

Anyway: stolen Allspark, barely injured kid, Bumblebee nearly losing it, and so on. What a mess. Then I came back to see Jetfire's form crouched on the beach, despite all warnings to the contrary. I went to the edge of the base to call him, but my vocaliser got stuck when I saw what had the old Seeker in a tizzy.

“You're really not supposed to be lying on the beach,” I commented to Prima's still formed. Somehow her helm had reshaped itself along with most of her limbs; still no armour, but at least it looked less like a dancing skeleton. “And you do know that salt water corrodes, right?”

Prima barely stirred. “It's the only way I could feel anything more. Don't get me wrong, your visual and auditory senses are superior, on top of the filters and scanners you guys probably have, but I miss smell, taste and touch. At least, something more than pressure and temperature readings.”

Right... tactile sensors. I guess even a few billion years or so wasn't enough to erase the homesickness of growing up in what one was used to.

I knelt down, ignoring the sand in my joints to peer at her. “Our roles are reversed. Before, I had to live as one of you. Now you have to live as one of us. But you won't be alone. We can search for an alt-mode together, really-”

“I don't have trans-scanners,” Prima laughed. “I don't have enough volume to rig one, either. Additional armour or weaponry would cripple my fighting ability, and I don't have time to get used to carrying so much extra weight. How can I even live as one of you when I can't even transform?”

Ouch. No wonder she was essentially dissolving herself. “Well, corrosion isn't going to solve that, you know.”

“It might,” she rebutted. “The water's warm. Do you remember?”

“Remember?”

“The experience of buoyancy.”

I reflected nostalgically on that suspension between the worlds of sea and sky. There was really something to be said of a human's tactile sensor nets. Or nervous system. “That's neither here nor there. I'm sure we can figure something out. C'mon, up. Why don't you play a song?”

“How? I have no instruments.”

“You're the creative one. Figure something out.” I grabbed her pedes to drag her into the base.

Her digits dug into the sand ineffectually. “I will make you watch the rest of Doctor Who ! You piece of junk-yard scrap! You'll never sleep in peace again! Jetfire !”

“Sorry, madam,” Jetfire bowed. “It is for your own good.”

“Jetfire!” Prima's digits dug furrows into the beach. “Jazz!”

“Right, whatever,” I dismissed.

“I'm going to kick you,” Prima glared down at me.

“You can- ack! That's cheating!”

“Taijiquan is a valid martial art for a reason, idiot!” Prima yelled. “You guys called it Circuit-Su.”

“I was right! Or, I am now.”

Prime was waiting, arms crossed over his chassis with a remarkable air of patience. “Welcome back, Prima.”

Prima got up, dusting the sand off of her armour carefully. “We should re-institute a movie night. Much as I enjoy silence, we really do need to talk more.”

“I'm sure tonight will offer you some relaxation in philosophical discourse shared by human performance art,” Prime answered. “Ratchet told me that you would welcome Pizzicato's newest upgrades more than film art, however.”

“Upgrades?” Prima asked as the bird-like drone hopped from Prime's shoulder pad to Prima, and then transformed into a giant guitar. Considering that Prima was only about a foot less than her descendant, it was a really large guitar.

“Music was your original calling, was it not?” Optimus sounded excited, eager, even. “Some of Cybertron's first songs were supposedly penned by you.”

“I guess... music is the expression of order over chaos, but it wasn't an activity the others understood,” Prima reflected, strumming the strings with a low hum before tugging at a tuning peg. “An electric guitar?”

“Some suggestions did mention that learning a new instrument might keep you occupied,” Optimus suggested. “Of course, you may also call it a bribe.”

“Interesting.” I could hear Dahlia's smirk in that word. “A bribe in exchange for something? I did not think that you would need to.”

“It is... a personal question,” Optimus paused. “I would like to ask about why you were called the Warrior of Light, despite...”

“Ah,” Prima traced her optics once more. “I got this from the last battle against the Devourer of Worlds. My visual sense was lost before we came to Earth. So I didn't see who killed me.”

“You're certain that the Fallen did not kill you,” Optimus clarified.

“He was still talking far away, and my auditory sense allows me to judge distance. It was too far for him, even with his spear. Why?”

Optimus remained silent, but his battle mask was up. “It leaves only one terrible possibility. One of the other Primes chose to murder you.”

I considered that prospect. One where the Fallen was not the instigator, but instead another of the Thirteen...

“If so, then why did the Fallen not choose to take power legally?” Prima questioned. “Cybertron was still nominally under the rule of Primes. With my death, and the conviction of even one of the others, the Fallen could have imposed martial rule under such basis with little objection from the remaining six. Vector Prime and Alpha Trion, especially, would have stood neutral, and Solus Prime would have given her support and that of Nexus Prime.”

“But the myth of the Primes' infallibility would have been crushed,” I pointed out quietly, looking to Optimus. “The Primes would have to be acknowledged as mortal, without the guide of order or any wisdom. The creations of the Grand Creator were as flawed as any other being, but they hold powers so great that they are multi-versal singularities. What basis would the Dynasty of Primes have to rule upon if their moral base was destroyed, other than the rule that might makes right? In his own way, the Fallen was probably trying to protect his own power.”

“But he failed,” Optimus commented. “He was labelled Fallen, and history forever after calls him a betrayer.”

Prima bowed her helm. Whether in sadness or regret, I did not know, but what I did realise was that war had a way of tearing families apart.

Chapter Text

We moved, from the island to a coastal base. Many humans still hadn't gotten used to Prima's blackened optics, and neither had we. Handling a blind Cybertronian was rare, and frankly disability management was quite minimal. It would have been rather odd if not for that Prima practiced her Circuit-Su by the coast.

“She's doing it again!” Lennox complained to us. “Jazz!”

“Erm,” I blinked out at Jetfire and Prima slowly making their way through a third-tier form. “I get the feeling that they'll murder me.”

“You know, I thought the whole point of the transforming, monkey-see-monkey-do transforming gig was to lay low,” Lennox complained. “Not send SETI into a tizzy over aliens hiding in our midst. There might be pictures!”

“Prima can't transform,” I answered. “At least, not into anything recognisable on Earth.”

“Right,” Lennox slowly nodded, seeing in the distance Prowl walking up to the practise to say something. What it was, it made Jetfire back away and Prima turn to face Prowl.

Then the combatants sped into action. Servos clashed, knee struts knocked, and the ground must have trembled at their bodily clash. Prima was faster, but Prowl had gravity. His digits would have stabbed had Prima not feinted.

“And they're all channelling Bruce Lee,” Lennox commented. “Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots.”

“Circuit-Su is actually a martial art back on Cybertron.” I commented. “It focuses heavily on mental and spiritual discipline, often to the exclusion of the physical. Practitioners study the focusing of their willpower, as well as the nature of their sparks. They said that Prima invented it, but I haven't seen any evidence up till now.”

Their forms were speeding up, Prowl actively having to rebuff attacks from the oldest of Primes. Blackened optics gleamed in the sun as Prima intruded, arms stretched and servos raised... light trailing from her digits as she slapped Prowl on both audio receptors with an audible ring. The Autobot SIC stumbled back, rocking on his pedes before he shakily took his stance.

“It is rumoured, that masters of this fighting style can actually harness their spark energy as a physical attack,” Prowl gasped.

“Your gyroscopes will require some time to recover,” Prima noted. “The pinnacle of mastery is when one can manipulate their spark energy, overriding all redundancies within the Transformium frame to fuel the spark. The spark theoretically swells until it reaches critical mass, and at that critical point, it is possible to introduce the event horizon of a nova.”

“Mastery of Circuit-Su would transform one's spark into a star?” Prowl asked, curiosity present in his tone. “Such an interesting prospect. Has it been proven?”

Prima smiled. It made her faceplate brighten metaphorically as she turned on one heel strut, servos fanning out, before-

She swiped a leg out, and the sand crackled in its wake, having been burned into charred glass. Holy slag.

“Madam Prima is the Warrior of Light for a reason,” Jetfire's words gave grave implications.

“But the heat from that sort of spark-deep transformation...” Prowl considered.

“Yes,” Prima agreed, her heel strut breaking the half-melted glass. “My comms and my transformation parts have burned in the heat of the stars. Instead of a physical transformation, I underwent a mental transformation. Enough about myself. Was there no other master of Circuit-Su on Cybertron?”

“None that would match yourself,” Prowl answered. “My old master, Yoketron, could only perform the physical forms. He, and now I, fall short of spark-mastery. Is there some wisdom you could impart upon your students?”

“Students...” Prima reflected. “Well, I'm not sure if Circuit-Su was divided into branches, but under my branch, we covered three different... aspects. The sword for valour; to bear arms in the name of valour. The Matrix, for defence; to protect and incapacitate, to encourage health. But the last aspect... well, that one is a bit hard. There is no meaning in a reflective surface to me now.”

“Why would a reflective surface be needed?” Prowl asked.

Prima smiled. “I envy you, that you have loved someone.”

Back turned, Prima faced the rising sun. “Because, to transform one's spark, you must know yourself so intimately to acknowledge that you will forever be standing apart from other mechs.”

Prima sadly raised a servo to her optics. “My comms were burnt, my frame frozen, my optics blackened. I bear no title of Prime. That is because... I have become so mutated, so far from a Cybertronian, far from my brothers or Optimus, that I have become something else entirely.”

Megatron was revived. We knew, because he stood in the background of the Fallen's global broadcast, stating the time and place of the meeting of Primes.

Lennox pulled the cord from most of Diego Garcia's phones, still complaining.

“Tact is not a strong part of him,” Prima diplomatically replied. “Cunning is, however, within his midst. He has realised three facts, and he has told them to us.”

“Three facts?” Lennox crossed his arms. “Look, just two days ago you were human, Dahlia!”

“And I have been his sibling for over nine billion Earth years,” Prima snapped back. “Even though we have not been in contact for seventeen millennia, some things do not change, including his thinly veiled megalomania that took us pains to control.”

“Those facts,” Prowl crossed his arms. “Explain.”

“One, that the Autobot-Decepticon war is happening within an unknowing populace,” Prima counted. “By alerting that populace, he also renders us accountable to them. Two, the location is made public; there will be public pressure on our side to sue for peace, whereas the Decepticons have, quite openly, fixed that there will be no incentive for them. Three, by revealing the time and place so publicly, he also ensured that all attention shall be on the meeting, since this will be the discovery of the millennium. And he already knows all of that because Soundwave escaped, and Soundwave has been around for thirty years, enough to see history in the making.”

“I see,” Prowl nodded. “This is Prima's legendary foresight?”

“It is whatever you think it is,” Prima answered. “I've been reviewing a lot of tales, and... let's just say that the others were always easily impressed by a bit of foreknowledge and deduction.”

But it went more than that, I realised. The wisdom of the Primes had to start somewhere, if it wasn't divinely granted. Since Prima had given the Matrix to Optimus, none of her foresight had diminished, but instead honed itself to the sharpest point. It was still mortal, of course, but the fact remained that Prima was blind, and yet she had still held her power in a society of mechs who looked down upon physical weaknesses like blindness.

“I wonder if that foresight,” Optimus started in measured tones, “has any relation to the human myths.”

“What myths?” she asked.

“That of the Delphic Oracles.”

“If it were so, then I hope not,” Prima reflected. “Because what's worse than if I was wrong... is, if I was right.”

A Chinook helicopter hung around the meeting zone, right in the Angkor temple complex of Cambodia. I had been here before; as a human, scaling Angkor Wat had been exhausting but worth it, especially the busking fees. We got in by air-drop, since there was no way Optimus could have driven through.

“Ta Phrom,” Prima reflected, studying the forestry around. “They chose one of the most inconvenient locations for any of us to get into. Our only comfort is that they will most likely face the same logistical challenges.”

“They could destroy it,” I suggested.

“Ta Phrom is built entirely of granite, without cement,” Prima answered. “And even if they succeeded, they would have to destroy the strangler fig in the middle. Would be rather hard.”

Optimus pondered. “It is a good location. Somewhat eerie, but beautiful. I am glad that APSARA did not make too much of a fuss, but it is too much to hope that Ta Phrom would not be destroyed if a scuffle ensued.”

We looked around, the four of us. Prima was leaning on Jetfire, the old Seeker carefully escorting Prima around the under-bush and humid air, along with many muttered complaints. Prima's cane made thumps each time she tapped it, which made Optimus and I shudder each and every time it made contact. I wasn't having such a good time with it either, but Optimus was slightly unused to such conditions, given his size . Most Decepticons stuck to urban areas, after all.

“It's actually not too bad,” the Autobot leader commented, looking at the flat Khmer temple surrounded by vines and tree-roots. “This planet continually amazes me, the fact that they built such lasting structures despite their own mortal lifespans, the designs and arts that their imaginations take them... even the intangible arts they create are beautiful. Cybertron was beautiful at its height, but humbled and destroyed some parts of this world are, still they struggle to rise.”

“You found out about the Khmer Rouge, didn't you,” Prima guessed.

Optimus fell silent.

“It's alright,” Prima whispered. “You know, I guess that if Cybertron ever got to recovering, it might be a little bit like Cambodia. When the war ends, we must find a historian. We must find the stories of the Decepticons, and write them. The dead honoured together, the peace celebrated, and music to echo throughout the spheres. When we're done, we're taking a road trip to Choeung Ek.”

“You've been here before?” Optimus asked.

“I work in fund-raising concerts sometimes,” Prima answered. “When... I was human. Some of my work takes me here and there, but I haven't been to North Korea or the Middle East. It's complicated.”

“You have an American passport.”

“I have citizenship, yes,” Prima hedged. “Or I used to have. Or I still have. It's a complicated legal status. How do you guys determine citizenship?”

“You're... created on the planet?” I suggested. “That's it?”

Prima stopped. “You guys had a Senate. Ergo, you have legitimate continental and city-state government. That city government probably gives you the right to vote, work and live in the country, the right to return to the city, the right to own real estate in the city, legal protections, etcetera. And, as you told me, you had contact with other civilisations. Migration isn't a thing?”

“There is a certain discomfort with moving, I am to understand,” Optimus diplomatically answered. “Many civilian Cybertronians did move off-planet, especially when the war began in earnest and civil services began to fail. However, to answer your question, citizenship on Cybertron is granted as jus soli under each city-state, with city-state citizenship being paramount and unchanging.”

“And public health is also given based on citizenship in that state?” Prima asked.

“Yes.”

“So is it possible to receive public healthcare if a citizen from one state goes to another state to seek, oh, maybe a frame revamp?”

“I... suppose not,” Optimus mused. “The ideology of functionism became quite popular on Cybertron following the last... seventy-two thousand vorns or so, before the fall of Cybertron. It went that a role in Cybertronian society was determined by one's alt-mode. It was quite religiously based, and I understand that in some places, prison was a punishment for complaining about one's alt-mode.”

“So, for a Transformer that can't transform...”

“Madam,” Jetfire murmured, “You are Prima. Not even the most hard-line believers of that trash would attempt to murder one of the Thirteen.”

“...”

Prima was still mulling over that argument when the other two arrived with the crack of a space bridge.

“Ugly, sticky- Prime,” Megatron sneered once he dropped out of the sky.He blatantly ignored the mud and tree sap clinging to his armour.

Discreetly, parts shivered, energon swords assembling under his armour. “Megatron,” Prime answered.

“I see you brought my scraps,” Megatron sneered as he spotted me. “You survived.”

“Crack it,” I shot back.

Silently, the Fallen glared at all of us, except when Prima stepped forward towards Megatron's growl. “Come here, youngling.”

“You dare call me a youngling?” Megatron growled.

“If you hold no respect for your elders, obviously you are a youngling,” Prima slowly toddled forward, tapping her cane impatiently before one servo slapped on Megatron's faceplate. “Interesting. Where is my opposable digit poking?”

Megatron's fusion cannon started humming. Prima drew her sword, and the Decepticon froze. The hum died.

“Answer me, youngling,” Prima snapped. She was still brandishing the sword.

“My bridge-plate...” he muttered.

“Hmm... strong features you have. Where on Cybertron were you built?”

“Does it matter?” he snarled.

“Of course it does,” Prima answered. “You are his student, named after him. Megatronus must have his reasons.”

“...Kaon,” he muttered. “I rose to become Cybertron's Lord Protector under Sentinel Prime, commanding its Defence Force. Is that...?”

Prima let go, leaning down to pick up her sheath carelessly to slide the sword back. “I'd like to ask a question. Sentinel Prime being on the dark of the moon may be involve d .”

The Fallen froze, before looking towards Megatron. The Decepticon leader was clearly... panicked.

“You see, here I see you're more than just a thug,” Prima observed. “Lancelot to King Arthur. If I had to guess, part of your plan revolves around getting full control of the Decepticons, and the way to go about it is to kill Megatronus. You're not a Prime, not born a Prime. That leaves either Optimus or Sentinel. Enemies would always meet on a narrow road; Megatronus can be killed, not necessarily defeated, but killed by either Prime he would certainly meet. Find a way to kill Optimus after that, and you're set. If Optimus died, well, you get Sentinel out of his prison on the moon. How to achieve that? Allspark, or Matrix. That would presuppose that you knew that one artefact was on Earth, and you know because of Megatronus. One thing I didn't get, was why would Sentinel Prime be here? That question was always pestering me for eight months.”

“You sure it wasn't for aeons?” I piped up.

“Very,” Prima purred, stepping back to be covered by Jetfire's missiles. “I realised it when Optimus reminded me, that he forgot that I had a brother. It implied that he had a brother, too. A brother who betrayed, at the behest of a higher power... or a mentor.”

The Fallen, hypnotised by Megatron's seeming betrayal, drew back. “Excuse me?”

“I realised then, that Optimus and I held a shared experience of losing our brothers,” Prima reflected. “We stand by, we do things together, then somehow they drift apart. They no longer believe in a cause. They ask, why do we spare those planets of sentient organic life? And there are some things that we can't tell, because we cannot understand them ourselves. Like, why did we encourage seven brothers to seek out new suns? Why did we ask? We should have scoured the galaxies alone, leaving Cybertron forever. But you would have followed to the ends. And then there were the rest, but you were an especial favourite, Megatronus.”

Grumbling, the Fallen fell back. Could be worse. They could be having a whole quarrel over who got to wield the planet-killing weapon.

Prima turned back to Megatron. “I know about Sentinel Prime. About how he favoured Optimus Prime as a descendant of the Primes, believing Optimus to be the second of another direct descendant. I believe that Sentinel Prime decided to trade in the Autobot ideals to save Cybertron, as the war dragged on. He came here, and you followed him, and you crashed-”

“Who are you?” Megatron's cannon was pointing up. “How did you know all that? Who are you?!”

“I have many names, youngling,” she answered. “Call me Prima.”

Megatron stepped back. He actually took a whole step back . Colour me impressed. “What trickery is this?”

“There is no trick, Megatron,” Optimus interceded. “She held the Matrix.”

“You expect me to believe that this-” Megatron stabbed a servo towards her, “was the Warrior of Light?! Pathetic, reliant on others, so very noble. Tell me, Prima. If you are the Warrior of Light, why the charade? Why sue for peace? I thought you have sworn to eliminate all evil. Keep in mind that you continue to exist if I did not blast you.”

“Good and evil are so very nebulous,” Prima disagreed. “I stand here to ask you a question. Depending on the answer of your question, I may or may not stand as an ally.”

Megatron gaped, he actually gaped . He recovered himself, though still shooting glares at the surprisingly quiet Fallen. “ You ? What can you give, that I do not already have? ”

“The ultimate aims of my descendants may or may not coincide with yours,” Prima replied. “War makes for strange bedfellows.”

“Go on, then,” Megatron sneered.

“This war, this sorrowful thing that has destroyed your people and planet... is Earth simply a necessity to restore them?”

“You go too far, Prima,” the Fallen rasped, breaking the almost hypnotic peace.

“I go just right,” Prima serenely replied. “I know. I have always known it, that you did not care. About Cybertron... about your followers, your warriors... but you know, I think the last sight, before my sight was stolen, was the first time you cared.”

“This planet,” the Fallen growled. “This planet is the greatest curse of the Primes. All of time, and you had to come here... why, Prima? Why was this blue planet so important... that you would have left us to stay upon it and perish? When Jetfire destroyed the Centauri system, you did not even speak up! Eldest amongst us brothers, why?! There was never any need to negotiate!”

“I was not always Prima,” Prima answered stoically. “I was born here, as Dahlia Su Daji thirty years ago, on a day that shall live in infamy. I was a human, a musician. I was born weak, with a congenital heart defect. Every day I could suffer a cardiac arrest; every day I ingested the medicines needed to survive. I had a pace-maker. Two years ago Jazz got intimately acquainted with it, and that marked my involvement with your people.”

I sheepishly chuckled, but the Fallen had reared back.

“I was the human woman who blew you up on Diego Garcia,” Prima continued. “I brought the Matrix, intending to give it to Optimus, but fate had other plans. The Matrix had power, power that sent me back through time, to collide with stars and fall into the grace of creation, to be reborn as the eldest of us. The reason why I ensured that the Code of Primes ensured that no sentient being be harmed was for multiple reasons, chief amongst them two: one, to give a fledgling civilisation its first high moral ground to stand upon, for then, we might be great, but we would be monsters. The second was to protect this predestination paradox, and ensure that I would be born to meet all of you.”

“We would have been great,” the Fallen echoed, distraught.

“But my brother,” asked she, “what is greatness at the cost of your life? For if the Earth had died then, I would not have travelled back in time, and you would have died with the Unmaker's strike then. All of us would have died, and Cybertron would never have been born, much less become great. Megatronus... why did you bury me with the others back then? I could not have seen it, but I would like to know... why is it, that when I died, you did nothing to this planet? Why the fate of our brothers?”

The Fallen was venting. His optics flickered, his growls sharp, joints creaking. “Our brothers and I agreed, that the moral ground should have been discarded. They agreed to your face, but behind your back, they wanted energon. They wanted to live. It had been easy, to fool them, to build the solar harvester on the planet called Earth and prepare for your arrival. It had been decided that you would have died, the signal being to drop my spear. You spoke then.”

Prima remained standing, back struts straight, but here she tottered to fall against Jetfire's support. “ True, circumstances would always lead us to hard choices. Is that not why we must lead virtuous lives? ” Prima spoke hollowly. “ Megatronus... I have asked nothing from you, but now I plead. Please, do not do this. ”

“I raised my hands... but dropped my spear,” the Fallen broke the news. “You were killed then, by the other five of our brothers, struck down in the back strut. They believed me smitten, and that you were undermining Cybertron's attempts at glory. They laughed at how the greatest of us fell, because they had stabbed him in the back, despite that you could not see. You ask why, and I reply: I left you on your favourite planet, this filthy, mortal planet because you loved it. I destroyed our brothers for the sin of killing you. I realised that Cybertron needed to change, andI would become that change for the sake of your memory.”

“Megatronus... what have you done?” Prima whispered.

...this is worse than plain megalomania. I didn't know it before, but megalomania tinged with brother complexes was definitely worse than plain megalomania. Megalomania alone was acceptable as a target, since it imposed one's will dictatorially, but love... tended to breed well-intentioned extremists.

“You ask me? You dare ask me? What of you?” the Fallen began to rant. “Weak, reliant scrap you are! Those optics of yours, those blank, empty optics; why do they mock me so? The brother I failed, each reminder grating upon me. The cure that required energon I was unable to gather, for the Allspark started to lose power. And then we set out together across the stars, and then... then you came here. To this backwater rock. Your Seeker platoon started carrying tales of your enamour of this planet. This planet I truly hate, for it stole Cybertron's Warrior of Light.”

Megatron sidled over, leaving the Fallen and Prima to complain at each other. “They're mad.”

“They're family,” Optimus spoke up.

“No other family squabble I know of involve bloodshed that destroyed an entire planet, boss-bot,” I chirped sadly. “So...”

Optimus turned his helm, considering Megatron. “How are you?”

“Well enough,” Megatron hedged. “Considering that my master is quarrelling with your ancestor under a non-aggression truce, one must reconsider if the Fallen truly deserves to lead the Decepticons.”

“Why did you side with the Fallen, Megatron?”

Screwed-up family, I reminded myself as the other two bots started arguing . Big screwed-up one, if the Fallen wasn't lying. And since Sentinel Prime was probably part of this ridiculously screwed-up family... some creative interpretation, and the entire Autobot-Decepticon war could be interpreted as a really bad family struggle that went nuts.

Prima staggered back, truly winded. Jetfire offered his support once more as she stared around, if she had optics . “How did this war start? How many more must die?”

“For Cybertron,” the Fallen rumbled. “Many must die. There is no other option until only one is left standing.”

“You're right.”Prima finally conceded after a long silence.

I had a really bad feeling about this...

“What?” the Fallen was instantly on guard.

“One shall stand... and one shall fall,” Prima stated. “It is the way. But, Megatronus... just because you fell from grace in the eyes of our brothers, does not mean that you cannot rise again. Did you not hide us, because you believed that you would not be forgiven? Does this war not continue, because both have spilled too much energon to fall back? So neither will fall back. Neither will give ground. Enough of this. Optimus, we'll have to postpone that trip. Jetfire.”

“Yes?” the Seeker asked.

“I need you to take me to Cybertron,” Prima commanded as Pizzicato leapt onto her shoulder. I thought I saw sparks dancing at the edge of her dark armour, but then they were gone. “If the thing is gone, neither side have reason to fight, do they?”

Jetfire bowed lower as he held Prima's servo . “...yes.”

My eyes must have bugged out as Prima and the Seeker disappeared. “She can't be... thinking what I'm thinking, right?”

Blue and red optics blinked in unison as the Fallen winked out of existence, probably to chase after them.

“I don't think...” Megatron started.

“I would,” Optimus agreed. “Dahlia Su is... human. Prima's soul is human. If there was a chance to stop this war and spare this planet, Dahlia Su has died for it. And she is in possession of the weapon. Who knows...”

“Cybertron,” Megatron hissed. “is in danger.”

“Yes,” Optimus vented. “And the Fallen has gone.”

“I propose a truce in deference to the current threat of Prima against Cybertron.”

“Until its resolution, and... until further negotiation,” Optimus decided. “We need a space bridge if we're going to get there in time to stop here from activating the Star Saber.

“Space bridges?” Here Megatron turned crafty. “Sentinel Prime reinvented that technology into pillars. We have those pillars.”

“And can you activate them?” Optimus archly requested.

“No. But you have the Matrix. So I'll bring along the bridge pillars, your Autobots go to the moon and get Sentinel Prime.”

“You know,” I volunteered, “why should we trust you?”

Megatron glowered. It made him look twice as intimidating. “Will you stand there for our planet to be slain by its own founder?”

“It's a dead planet,” I pointed out. “And she's right.”

“I have fought to make Cybertron great,” he snarled. “I have plotted with Sentinel Prime to transport the planet with those space bridge pillars here, where this star will feed us. I will not stand by to let anyone destroy her. You may accept that Cybertron is dead, but it... is home.”

And the way he said it, the way that Megatron proclaimed it, more than just a tyrant hungry for power, was...

“Megatron is right,” Optimus volunteered. “Despite our differing ideologies, we still have that common planet of Cybertron to call home. And, there may still be personnel on the planet. There is no other option.”

I shuttered my optics. “Right.”

' Prowl ,' Optimus commed. ' Requisition a ship. We're going to be retrieving a body with the Decepticons . No, I am not mad. But Prima might be.'

Chapter Text

“Let me get this straight,” Lennox started to tug at his hair. “Prima, or Dahlia, went nuts and decided that the best way to stop the war was to destroy Cybertron, which is probably a floating hunk of metal by now. She took along Jetfire and the Fallen, and hence we're working with Megatron, disrupting any plans he might have had to screw the Earth over, so that Autobots and Decepticons are actually uniting to take them down.”

“A fair enough assessment,” Megatron snorted as the body of Sentinel Prime was levered out of the landed spaceship in Houston, Texas. “How did you discover Sentinel, Autobot Jazz?”

“Well, after you played tug-or-war with my body, my spark ended up in the gal's pacemaker once you dropped it and I collided,” I reasoned, passing a glowering Starscream. “Dahlia and I got together, killed Decepticons, and made merry hell until we got most of the relevant human pawns you got and started uprooting them. Who expects the girl with a heart defect to become an Autobot agent?”

Megatron glowered. “No one believed that a Cybertronian could be placed in a human corpse.”

“I was placed in the pace-maker,” I specified. “Big difference.”

“If placing you in a human's pace-maker created Prima, let us never try that again,” Megatron commented as Optimus hefted us the Matrix. “Prime.”

“Yes,” Optimus stated, piercing the Matrix right into the chassis. Ouch. “Sentinel Prime... get back here so that I can have your face.”

Sentinel awoke to face the business end of Megatron's cannon and Optimus's dagger. Yep, definite daddy issues.

“Hello, old friend,” Optimus's battle mask slid into place. “I've just begun to know something about you.”

“Now, shall we bring you up to speed?” Megatron finished. “There has been a situation.”

The legendarily disagreeing co-rulers of Cybertron were actually uniting onto something. Pity the mechs facing that pair.

Sentinel vented, glaring at the two. “The two of you could never agree on resolving the war. What caused such a change of heart?”

“Cybertron is under threat from Prima,” Optimus stated. “We must have the space bridge to get there in time.”

“Prima? Cybertron?” Sentinel's optics sharpened, even as he eyed the pair. “What is the meaning of this, Optimus?”

“You betrayed yourself,” Optimus rumbled. “You betrayed us, Sentinel Prime. I would not forgive you, but there is no more time to waste. Three solar cycles have passed since Prima departed, and as we speak she might use her spark to transform into a star.”

“Turning her spark into a star?” Sentinel mumbled. “What are you talking about? Megatron, what is the meaning of this?”

“She would destroy Cybertron were it a chance to end this,” Megatron growled. “There is no more time to waste. Prima was alive on this planet, and on her way to destroy Cybertron now. We must stop her. We need the central pillar, Sentinel Prime.”

“I... understand,” Sentinel clambered up from the metal supports that had held him up. “So this is the blue planet. It is higher than I have expected.”

“The blue planet?” Optimus asked.

“The annals of Primes described the planet as one where seven Primes died, illuminated by a yellowed star,” Sentinel related, currently turning to regard the space bridge pillars. “They regarded it as cursed, or protected. Now, I can reverse the coordinates, but where on Cybertron would Prima go?”

“Where on-” I shut up. “Of course, Cybertron has changed. That's why she needed Jetfire, because she hasn't seen Cybertron in millennia! Well, millions of years, actually...”

“Millions of years?” Sentinel echoed.

“Prima is blind.” Optimus stated.

“What... is that?”

We all paused. There were some words in Cybertronian that had no equivalent in the human language. Disability was regarded as a personal failing in spark, not in physical ability. Blindness, deafness and muteness was not part of the average Cybertronian's parlance.

“She cannot see,” Optimus finally hit upon. “Unicron's power from the old war blocks her sight.”

“Rubbish! Prima was claimed to be the perfect creation of Primus. How can Prima not be able to see?”

“Does it matter?” Megatron snarled. “That Prime will be deadlier should she be able to talk.”

“It's a long story,” Optimus looked like the legendary patience was reaching its limits. “We shall have to use the Matrix to access those annals of Primes.”

Sentinel Prime regarded the proffered Matrix in Optimus's servo, before looking away. “Only the worthy may hold the Matrix of Leadership. Countless of the Thirteen have attempted to hold it, but it has always broken in their hands. I should add as well, that I never said that the annals were within the Matrix.”

“Then how have you read these annals?” Optimus demanded.

“You were there,” Sentinel defended. “Excavation site LT-34.”

“I see,” the Boss reflected. “The chamber of the Dynasty at Simfur.”

Megatron sneered. “What other tricks have you hidden, Sentinel?”

“We can conclude that the annals lied, since Prima was not mentioned unable to see,” Prowl finally interceded. “The only truth we could believe now is an eyewitness account. We must establish where Prima must have gone, and what she would intend.”

Optimus thoughtfully considered the Matrix, and then tilted his helm. Slowly, Sentinel Prime and Megatron followed his optics' line of sight, to alight on the five laid-out corpses of five immured Primes in the corner.

“By the Pit, what is that?” Megatron finally said.

“The results of a space-bridge opened into a mountain to fling five Primes through,” I answered. “It's your mentor's handiwork. Da- I mean, Prima called it interpenetration, or tele-fragging.”

The Matrix shone with light, and my vision went white.

The next second found the four of us standing in the midst of a blank plain of desert. Gold was irradiated all over the sandy dunes, and towering over them was a sky black as space, stars and planets scattered to hover impossibly big. The sand swirled in a passing breeze, and around us, the sand gathered into bedrock and then some, rearranging themselves as they assembled blocky house by blocky house. Cyberglyphs were patterned over most of the available blank space, curiously written at servo level.

“The main square of Old Simfur, with the names of its inhabitants in Old Simfur dialect,” Optimus recalled. “We never figured out why they carved the glyphs in both round and relief. Nor did we decode the language.”

I peered closer, to look at the dots. “Braille.”

“Excuse me?” Megatron growled.

“The humans have a tactile writing system used for their visually impaired,” I recalled the small pages with raised bumps that Dahlia had read, once upon a long time when teaching at a class for the handicapped. “This is a small city, even when it was the height of Cybertronian life under the Thirteen. Passing a law requiring this is possible.”

“Indeed?” Optimus peered at the characters with renewed interest.

“What does it matter now?” Megatron huffed, moving to storm ahead. We passed more houses, roads and even the plaza before we arrived at the public wash-racks, bypassing that for the end of the road; the library.

“The Simfur Temple was built after the era of the Thirteen here,” Sentinel wistfully reflected, bowing his head to enter. He'd know, the fragger, since it was built in his reign.

We entered the small library. “I've been expecting you,” its sole occupant related.

Surrounded by screens and stacks of plates and data-pads, the elderly Cybertronian wore armour shrouded in mauve. He also sported an impressive moustachioed growth that won against Sentinel's muttonchops. “The Covenant did mention that you would come.”

Optimus pondered, and then bowed very slowly. “Greetings to you, elder.”

“I return those greetings, young Prime,” the elderly one answered. “Lord High Protector Megatron, Autobot Jazz, Sentinel Prime.”

“Who are you?” Megatron demanded.

“Please, call me Alpha Trion.”

“The Archivist of Iacon,” Sentinel rumbled, with a touch of disgust. “How have you sequestered yourself into the Matrix, despite having never touched it?”

“Respect your elders, if you please,” Alpha Trion serenely answered. “As for your answer, why would a child of creation not be held within the Matrix?”

“You're one of the Thirteen,” I realised.

“So we were called,” Alpha Trion smiled indulgently. “I understand that you are here for answers about their deaths.”

“The Fallen... claimed that the other Primes murdered Prima,” Optimus hesitated, not looking at Megatron or Sentinel with their shock plainly apparent. “Prima is about to destroy our world with her Star Saber. We must stop her.”

“Oh my,” Alpha Trion reflected. “Is that such a loss? A world torn apart by war, and caused by its citizens' own servos. Let Cybertron function as a cautionary tale, then.”

“But it is our home,” Optimus continued.

“Have you not found another home now?” Alpha Trion questioned. “The blue planet.”

“Earth,” Megatron muttered in disgust.

“Cybertron is our homeland,” Optimus continued. “Even if the spark and the future of our civilisation lies in the ashes of the Allspark, our past must be valued as well. Otherwise, as my friend would say, history will repeat itself. There will be Autobots and Decepticons once again, and then Cybertron- we would never see peace and justice.”

“But what says you, Megatron?” Alpha Trion challenged.

“Cybertron cannot become great if it is destroyed,” Megatron replied tightly.

“Good enough,” Alpha Trion shrugged elegantly. “Sentinel Prime?”

“We were gods once,” Sentinel replied tightly.

Alpha Trion just shook his helm. “You have much to understand, then. Now, you are looking for a possible location of our eldest sibling. I understand that our eldest was in stasis for the past few decavorns?”

“Prima was born mortal,” Optimus stated. “The fates of two planets were tied when the mortal woman was reborn into the spark of Prima.”

“...” A blackened pall seemed to have settled over the old librarian. The smile remained fixed in place, coupled with the advent of some terrible rage building behind the faceplate. Digit struts cracked and creaked, and the library itself seemed to be shaking. “It appears that Vector Prime has much to answer for.”

Alpha Trion vented. The rage broke into a simmer, banked by reason. The library dissolved before our eyes, golden sand to shroud Alpha Trion.

“You seek to know where our eldest would be,” The Prime Archivist echoed. “I will show you their stories, the memory of the dead Primes. Please, though, do not judge them. We were all young, and foolish, once upon a time...”

Chapter Text

We saw through the memories of Primes, many Primes, including the murdered five. We saw their meeting. How Prima had gotten along, from retiring to outspoken. Silent in revelry, dedicated in training, peaceful in thought. Foresighted and bearing the Matrix.

Even in the frame of a mech gave her something that outshone the mystery of Solus Prime, the only femme Prime amongst the Thirteen. Amusingly, Solus Prime could never create strings, one that Prima had looked truly betrayed at.

Prima became the Light-Bearer, even as they prepared to face the Unmaker.

What is that sound?

The Unmaker was coming.

The Thirteen congregated to discuss and panic, luminous in the blank pall of Cybertron pre-civilised, blank with barely a hint of cyber-forming.

“I'll need that shield,” Prima finally said. “Solus, you said that you just need time, right?”

“I'll have to calibrate the Requiem Blaster, yes,” the Creator Prime snapped, the pieces of another legendary weapon scattered about them. “But you cannot be thinking of facing Unicron alone, Prima!”

Something rumbled outside, a deep and horrible sound that had most of the Primes gathering. “We must fight,” the one I recognised as the Fallen growled. “Solus, hurry!”

“You are mad, Prima!” the one I recognised as Alchemist Prime started yelling as Prima took up a metal shield and the Star Saber, preparing to walk out of their constructed shelter to face Unicron. “What can you do with those alone?”

“Send Micronus to set up the traps once you're done helping Solus, Alchemist,” Prima ordered. “Alpha Trion, please help Vector Prime tarry the time-stream. The rest of you, you know your jobs.”

Prima did not answer, even as she strode out to face the Unmaker. The shadowy creature chuckled, the Lord of Chaos amused, shrouded in the darkness of empty space. As in, space empty of everything, even light .

Mortal creation, have you finally come to meet your end early?

“My brothers find themselves occupied with other matters this epoch, Lord of Chaos,” Prima bowed. “As the eldest, I shall take it upon myself to amuse you till the day-cycle has ended.”

We leant forward, about to see an epic battle-

The Star Saber struck Prima's shield. Once, twice, thrice, and then Prima started to... started to dance. In front of the Unmaker.

It was a nice dance, possibly the first of its kind, and the chanting was good, but surely there was a time and place. Right now, in front of the Unmaker was a really bad idea.

“She's mad,” Megatron finally said, as Prima sang:

Lacrimosa dies illa...
Qua resurget ex favilla...
Judicandus homo reus...
Huic ergo parce, Deus...
Pie Jesu Domine...
Dona eis requiem...
Amen...

Unicron must have thought so too, since a sound like static disruption set in. Like, WTF HUH? Earth language was surprisingly infectious.

One heel tucked out, Prima held her sword close, finishing the last stanza with a sweep of a heel strut. “I did say that I would amuse you, and I have.”

That horrible sound echoed far across, plain as the audios could hear. Unicron was laughing, and yet it came with a sort of... wonderment. I concede that, the voice seemed to say. Even as nightfall seemed to befall the plain they were fighting on, Unicron was advancing...

“The rest of the song shall have to continue the next day,” Prima added lightly. “It is what we call epic poetry. A saga.”

Unicron immediately halted his advances. In fact... it felt like the Unmaker was facing a crisis of destroying now, or letting the entertainment play out. The Destroyer was in a fragging crisis.

“Oh,” Megatron said softly. “That is impressive.”

Prima went back that night.

True to word, Prima came back the next day to finish the song. She also brought a length of string, and a metal hook, in place of her weapons.

“I challenge, that I shall make armour out of this,” Prima stated.

The dark presence scoffed. Prima set to work until the sun went down and she went back, citing that the final result will have to be completed the next cycle. The next day-cycle saw the completion of crocheting the string into a cloak, which she draped over her own form like those human ghosts and mimed.

Silently, she went through a dance, that hit intermission upon the setting of the sun.

She came back the next day, performing the rest of the dance before producing a stack of slates, starting the first known Cybertronian stand-up joke. Unicron called a recess once the sun set, too busy laughing with us in the background.

The rest of the stack was completed the next light-cycle, at which Prima decided to tell a story...

...leaving the cliffhanger just as the sun set.

All the while, the plain was surrounded by bombs, the weapons of the Primes were built upon the Forge of Solus Prime, tactical plans were grimly laid out, and some of the Primes ribbed Prima for having the easy job of delaying Unicron each day-cycle.

Megatron had hit upon the survival-by-entertainment strategy, enthralled as Prima continued to entertain, tease, and slowly lull the Unmaker into distraction. Even we were very convinced of her persuasive rhetoric , looking as it were from the view of Alpha Trion strategising from above the plain of battle.

“Mortal creation,” it finally rumbled one day-cycle.

Unicron spoke in a voice that, without the dilution of memory, would probably have peeled paint, ruptured audios, and left us gibbering in its comprehension. Then again, the twelve-joor filibuster on the justification for life to continue existing Prima just delivered might have done the same thing.

“You are truly entertaining,” Unicron continued bumbling. “I may choose to spare your life at the final battle should you join me.”

Prima slowly drummed her fingers on the drum strapped to her hip. She said nothing at all, but even the Unmaker seemed to shy away.

“It's a very tempting offer,” she finally said. “I appreciate it. I am thankful. I must show my gratitude, great Unmaker.”

She struck the drum, again and again before she held out a servo.

“However, everything I have used to entertain you these nine cycles, I have done for the descendants who will continue to live and propagate and entertain the gods. Great Unmaker, I respect that creation and destruction, chaos and order, are but mirrors of each other. I respect that ultimately, all things end, and yet I cannot abandon it, for otherwise creation shall have no meaning. I cannot afford to abandon it at this battle for its right to exist.”

“That would be far crueller a fate than merely stopping it at the source. Is life truly worth fighting for?”

“We're born free,” Prima answered. “I can dream of worlds, so different than they seem, with more than meets the eye to them each and every time. Lakes and seas of the universal solvent; mountains of ice and stone; stretches of green life; hidden depths of crystal; sandy beaches with warm suns, and mountains that spew fire, suns rising and falling. If we lose... a giant ball of gas shall illuminate our planet. But I have seen those worlds, and I have known what freedom is now; it is worth fighting for. It does not matter what is waiting outside there in space, or what comes in. It doesn't matter how cruel, or how unjust the universe can be. I have known suffering, I have known fear of death, and I know gratitude that I have meet them, my brothers. I am not alone in this, and thus I cannot fall back. Even if we all die... it is worth it, and that meaning has been declared. The fact that I only have one life makes it all the sweeter.”

Unicron swayed, however unconsciously, to the beat of the drum. “ I see. When your spark has extinguished in this battle, and my brother dead with you, I will remember you. ”

“Yes,” Prima stated. “Remember me as the one who defeated you.”

Unicron laughed. It was then cut off with a horrible knife-flinching sound, the kind of sound like a wood chipper or chainsaw would make when something got stuck. The field shimmered, especially as Prima kept a drum roll to a crescendo before... breaking the surface to draw her sword.

“Of course, the fact that music is the expression of order over chaos is in our favour,” Prima ran stated, raising her sword. “Till all are one!”

Several shaped charges went off, surrounding Unicron in a shower of sparks and fire, even as the rest of the Thirteen got into action with Prima, against Unicron and his shadows. Prima, avenging angel of light, held the Star Saber aloft, and her swings made the ground tremble as they tore shards off of the Unmaker. The Unmaker bellowed back, but now though, that sound inspired hope instead of dread; that the Unmaker, too, had nightmares about this, about falling to Prima in the end.

He lashed out at the Fallen, the order-imposing music weakening it, but Prima stepped into its path and collapsed.

“Prima!” the Fallen bellowed in agony, lifting the Requiem Blaster. A weapon that could fire the gravitational force of a black hole or a gravity well was hammered into Unicron again, and again, and again, and this time the Fallen would not let up.

“I will... remember...”

The Matrix flared even in Prima's fallen form, and Unicron... dissolved into so much dust.

“Prima!” the Fallen ran down to kneel at her side. “Eldest! Open your optics, please!”

“M- Megatronus...” Prima gasped in wonder. “Where are you... I can't see...”

“I'm right here, Prima,” Megatronus Prime took her servo to place near his faceplate. “We're all here. Look, Prima! Unicron is sealed, at least. We won’t have to worry about him now.”

“Megatronus...” Prima's smile was fading, as her optics remained permanently black. “I can't see.”

The scene faded, changing to show Simfur, slowly developing in the site of the battle against Unicron. The memory took us w ithin the old Simfur palace; only a slightly bigger house, but venerated by the servitors that were beginning to appear.

“The Planet-Eater lives still,” Prima related, even as her optics stared into infinity at nothing. “He is... amused, but offended. Far away, in a solar system with a blue-green water world...”

The Fallen sat next to the femme Prime, staring at Prima's raving. “Is Eldest... alright?”

“The optics of our eldest have been broken in the dark power of Unicron,” Solus Prime delivered in old Cybex. “Alchemist has delivered his own judgement on the matter. I cannot tell if Prima's processor has been broken in the strain.”

The contents of a table were swept to the ground. “Fix it, Solus!” Megatronus Prime bellowed. “Or we must use the Allspark.”

“Alchemist and I have touched upon a possible solution,” Solus Prime stated. “The circuits within Prima's helm can be repaired temporarily, but the energon cost is prohibitive. We must also see if the processor has not been damaged.”

“Prima has been continually babbling for three cycles and we must still confirm it?” he demanded.

“Prima is also the one who danced to the Unmaker for nine cycles simply on a gamble that the old god was bored enough not to destroy him outright,” Solus challenged. “The fact that it worked does not detract from the fact that it was dangerous. Prima-”

“Solus? Megatronus...?” Prima stopped babbling at last, stretching her servo out to blank space.

“You have awakened, eldest brother?” Solus Prime questioned, her alto voice low. “Alchemist and I will fix these optics. Or the Allspark will grant you a miracle. We will get through this.”

“Leave them, kin,” Prima answered, beginning to clamber out of the berth. “There is no more miracle for me.”

“T- That is unwise, Prima,” Megatronus rumbled, grabbing at her servos. “You cannot see!”

“The Thirteen are the first creations,” Solus protested. “You are broken. You must be fixed. Has that wisdom of yours faded into darkness with your optics?”

“Solus,” Prima refused, shaking her servos to make the Fallen let go. “I have had my wisdom since before facing the Unmaker. My lack of sight sight shall merely enhance it. After all, we proclaim ourselves as defending the weak, but what do we truly know about weakness, Solus? Call this a learning experience.”

“It is not your place to suffer for our wisdom!” Solus Prime snapped. “We have the sarcophagi for that! Megatronus, back me up. The Lord of Light cannot refuse his children the sight of Himself. We are immortal yet, and you are his most faithful servant. You have created miracles from this, so please, don't accept the darkness like this.”

“The miracle, Solus,” Prima replied, “is that I am blind, and yet I shall continue to lead all of you until I die. For we are not immortal in body.”

“How?” Megatron pondered. “She cannot see. She cannot recognise a mech's features, or movements. How can Prima expect to fight, much less lead?”

She did.

She led all of them, building Simfur into what must have been the city's height. Slowly, though, worries began to creep through the new forum of Primes, each worried, each terrified as the next pronunciation from Prima's cloak-shrouded form came true. I guess hindsight really was twenty-twenty, but some of the predictions had both Primes and even the former Lord High Protector stunned and discussing. Like some sort of prophet or oracle, Prima's foretellings swayed over the fates of Cybertronians.

Her apparent disability also marked her as other, different. It was the Fallen who held the greatest change; protectiveness that slowly turned stronger, rages shared with Solus Prime turning passionate, and somehow Prima became the centre of this thing between Primes. The doomed romance of Solus Prime and the former Megatronus Prime might be legendary, but we didn't know that Prima was actually the Fallen's BFF.

“One of your Seekers destroyed a solar system with organic life today,” Solus raged on the day that the Code of Primes was amended. “What were you thinking?”

“The energon provided could help Prima,” the Fallen answered stubbornly. “Our leader struggles in darkness each day, the wiring in her optics not repaired enough to see. The energon will help.”

“I've never seen Alchemist and Liego unite against you, and this is a first,” Solus Prime groaned. “Liego will find any excuse to put away Prima. Our leader is simply not worth the lives of a planet.”

“What does perfection matter?” the Fallen demanded. “Prima is like you or I, a Prime! The first amongst equals is Prima, and yet she is denied the Creator's radiance! How is it that Prima could place that spark of his against the Unmaker, and yet the Creator would deny his eldest child his blessing? Prima struggles, and falls, and every servitor seeks employment away from the Temple simply not to face Prima! Even prisoners fear Prima for nothing more than those blank optics! Is it not right that our brother is placed before those bugs who would simply waste the gift of life?”

“...Prima set out to check the damage, you know,” Solus Prime finally said to the glowering Megatronus. “Blind as he is, Prima can hear. The ice, the silence of death, the crystals of atmospheric gases. The disappointment of Prima will be hard on you.”

He was present on her return, eagerly waiting for something, a comment, a greeting, anything with an energon cube. He was ignored for fourteen day-cycles, during which Megatron was pitying his mentor for the cold-shoulder treatment.

“That is a very unique form of punishment,” Sentinel observed. The other two ignored him. This screwed-up family was really going to bring Cybertron to the dogs.

On the fifteenth cycle, Prima summoned him. The Fallen was a wreck, and she kept him waiting in the main room of the Simfur Temple, where she grabbed around the main altar of the Allspark to pull out two cubes.

“Megatronus?” she stated. “I may not agree with your methods, but I can understand why you did what you felt was right.”

“My interests has always been with the Dynasty,” Megatronus answered.

“But you did not know better,” Prima observed. “In time, that planet can become our allies.”

“It would have taken a long time before that, Prima,” Megatronus stated. “I did that for you.” Aren't you happy with me?

“...oh,” Prima considered. “Is the Allspark losing power still?”

Megatronus started. “It is still weakening. What did you think were my motivations?”

“Well...” Prima hesitated. “I'm always worried about you, since you have the hardest time adjusting to peace. Solus is a bit busy with our development projects, I am incapacitated as I am reviewing policy by ear and navigating Seeker management within the Simfur confines, and the rest of our brothers either disagree with you on principle or, with Liego, deliberately pick fights. I thought it might have been a sign that you wanted some attention, especially from Solus.”

“...Prima,” Megatronus answered, scandalised. “Killing a planet, even by accident, should not be misconstrued as a cry for you to take out the good energon, sit with me and talk about matters of the spark.”

“I'm sure that you had intentions other than malicious intent against all organic aliens on the planet, at least,” Prima answered, a touch sharply.

In the background, Megatron and I snorted. “I'm sure that the leader of the Primes who instituted that Code not to harm sentient life should not make such jokes lightly,” the Decepticon leader added.

“You did wrong, Megatronus, and now you know it,” Prima gently continued, placing the cube into one of his servos. “You have been punished, if Alpha Trion would have anything to say. I have also punished you. Now, though, we sit for a chat, talk about those matters of the spark you're so keen on avoiding, and in the end I forgive you and hope that you learn from this mistake. We will err, and we will fall, but why do we fall?”

“I do not understand, Prima.”

Prima stood up, walking so quickly that she pretty much bounced off a wall, prompting Megatronus to stoop down quickly. “Prima!”

“Do you know now?” Prima asked him.

“Why did you do that?!” Megatronus roared. “You could have broken a strut!”

“It was important,” Prima whispered to him, blank optics reflecting the distraught expression he wore. “I am more prone to it, but my point is that anyone can fall, even you and I. When that happens, what do we do? We pick ourselves up, and we learn not to fall again. But sometimes, we fall, and... well, we end up like me, unable to pick myself up. Then I need help, don't I?”

Megatronus slowly got the other Prime to her pedes, the birdlike helm shaking from side to side. Prima still looked a bit like a femme, but the build was more androgynous by human aesthetics. “So... you were helping me up?”

“Of course,” Prima traced his face-plates with one servo, the motion tender, before she hugged him. It was weird, and yet somehow heart-warming. “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. Even if the entire world turns against you, I will still try to forgive you.”

“You still haven't given up on me?” Megatronus realised.

“Never,” Prima answered. “There is a blue planet out there, one I wish to see with you. Even if I cannot see, I believe I shall know if we ever come across it.”

“That was the Fallen?” Megatron sounded repulsed.

“The Fallen was one of the Thirteen,” I reasoned. “It... makes sense. We associate good with life and bad with destruction, but... humans have... cancer.”

“What is that?” Megatron asked.

“The perversion of life that manifests only in organic beings,” Optimus flatly stated.

“Ah,” Megatron turned away. “Not our thing.”

“The point is, humans have a slightly more nuanced view,” I recalled the few comics and movies that Dahlia really liked. “Like, between a life of constant suffering and a death without pain or worry, which to pick? And that's just the individual preference, without considering resources available or reputation or the stigma associated with it.”

“You sound very knowledgeable on the topic,” Megatron sneered. “Have you been reading some human self-help manual in your spare time?”

“If you recall, I spent some time as a human because someone ripped me in half,” I cheerfully reminded him. “In that time, that human and I took down the Decepticon fifth column, gathering intelligence by getting a library card to the science fiction library. The sum total of human imagination put down your millennia-long plan.”

“If only she stayed dead, I would admire her,” Megatron grunted. “But she is a Prime, and determined to cheat death itself, until she is unrecognisable as a human being and more of a monster.”

“The point is that... all heroes and villains have a beginning,” I answered. “Sometimes, they can start out as bad or good guys, and then... somehow, they change sides. But, erm... then for the Thirteen, who lived before we conceived of good or evil, they can't be good or evil. They're beyond that. He loves her... and so many terrible things are done for love.”

Chapter Text

The scene faded, replaced with the harsh starkness of the Thirteen meeting.

“Cybertron has become completely mapped by the Çaveuticons under direction from the Seekers,” one of them was reading out, as in his background a holographic model of Cybertron shimmered. “We have established that spreading out our population would be best, and fixated upon twelve great settlements as the grand nodes of connections between cities. Under the proposal submitted by Solus and Nexus Prime, the mappers and constructors of Cybertron will unite to build our planet. We will see Cybertron into another age. Well... most of us will.”

Prima ignored the jab. “Very good, Liego Maximo. Do we have the resources, Alchemist Prime?”

“According to my calculations, yes, and much more after that,” the other Prime answered tightly. “But let it be said that I object to further expansion outside of Simfur.”

“Let that be noted, Alpha Trion,” Prima murmured, turning towards the scratch of stylus on plate.

“...yes.”

“As to your answer, Alchemist,” Prima shifted, her cane clattering. “Our servants work for us, but they are sentient, granted life by the blessing of the Allspark. But, Cybertron and its climate and acid rains are as indifferent to we Primes as they are to every other servitor. Neither can one side of Cybertron remain powerful for so long. Call it... variation. We need to get out of Simfur sometimes.”

“Get out of Simfur?” the Prime named Liego Maximo asked.

“One city does not require thirteen leaders,” Prima decreed. “There are twelve great settlements across Cybertron; thirteen, if we include Simfur. I have neglected you, my brothers. It is time for the next challenge of Primacy.”

“The... next challenge?” even Alchemist looked interested.

“Building the cities, of course, and leading them,” Prima answered. “Next item on the agenda. Alpha Trion, how goes the numerical development system?”

“Well, we're still determining the properties of the golden ratio in the Temple's architecture...”

“Prima, shouldn't you abdicate in favour of another already?” Liego Maximo challenged. “Alpha Trion must have strained his vocaliser, reading reports to you every cycle. He has Iacon to manage.”

“I agree, Liego Maximo,” Prima answered. “But what is there to abdicate? We Thirteen rule together as one. Unless you are implying that I am holding the reins of power?”

“You can't see the truths before you, brother,” Liego snapped, though keeping his tone sweet.

“I can hear, Liego. What I hear about your take on the energon shipment from the Gamma system is disappointing. The Seekers did their best with what they found. There was no need to threaten their hard work with violence.”

“Your hearing must have followed your sight, Prima,” Liego snapped, rising to glare. “For nothing of the sort has happened.”

“Nevertheless,” Prima started, “I require a team of Seekers to survey a new settlement. I'm thinking of centralising our Seeker sparkling grounds in another part of the planet. Perhaps they'll build the Vos project that Solus is always excited about-”

“Prima!” Liego snarled. “You cannot be thinking of settling my Seekers with Megatronus! You've already settled staff from Solus's armouries away from Iacon! At this rate, Trypticon will lose protection!”

“Trypticon should never have so much protection in the first place,” Prima reprovingly stated. “We have heard of what you have been doing with the staff, Liego, and need I remind you that wasting manpower is forbidden?”

“Megatronus wastes manpower too!” he argued.

“That was only one brawl, and it was with two Seekers off-duty and having partaken of too much energon-”

“How can you see the truth before you without your sight?” Liego snapped back. “You should have glitched a long time ago! You're a dead mech walking everyone fears, Prima!”

“I can see better than you without my optics!” Prima snapped, turning her back. “I can hear the cries of those you abuse unwittingly. I can study their reactions to a Prime, even when I am away. I may be feared, but I am not hated the way you have been these orns, Liego.”

Liego Maximo glared at her back, her sword-cane tapping on the ground. “Anything else on the agenda?”

“No, brother,” Alpha Trion replied.

“Then we are done,” Prima rose slightly, aided by a large grounded servitor. “The descendants are about due soon. Do not be late in welcoming it.”

“You'll be the last one there, anyway,” Liego sneered as Prima walked away. “Turn your backs on us, then, while you sequester yourself in Simfur.”

Sentinel rumbled once the scene changed. “Prima is certainly a... colourful character.”

“Not you too,” I moaned, as we got to the sparking of seven protoforms.

“Prima,” one of the Thirteen present spoke with a jeering tone. “If you are so foresighted, then use that legendary foresight and bless the sparks with a name.”

“That's a good idea,” Vector Prime took up. “Prima, a blessing for our new generation?”

“If you say so...” shrouded in her cloak, Prima picked up one sparkling.

“Your future... you will sweep Cybertron like the birth of a star, first of a new generation of seven Primes. Prime Nova.” She set the sparkling down, and Prime Nova babbled simply, unaware that he would lead Cybertron into heights far more.

“Oh, you're heavy,” Prima noted at the second one. “You will name others, and you will be named yourself. Let's hope that you don't wallow in ignorance... Nominus Prime.”

The sparkling went to the ground, and the Prime who would precipitate the collapse of the Primacy's power by being the most corrupt and slandering ruler Cybertron would face, Nominus Prime, crawled off.

Next sparkling. “The judge, of others and of the self. Let you be called Primon; you will bear the name of Prime forever more, because that is the function you designated yourself. I hope that you chose your function well.”

The creator of the Functionalism movement, Primon, had his fate sealed there.

“Oh, so similar,” Prima touched the helms of the two. “One will be logical, and one sentimental. Yet sentiment will somehow sway the logical... even beyond the grave. Sentinel Prime, and Guardian Prime, twin protectors.”

Sentinel Prime bristled.

“The sixth one today,” Prima continued, oblivious to her brothers' worried mumblings. “Zeta Prime. Live and die obscurely. That will be your only blessing.”

Zeta Prime, the Prime forgotten within the stars, was set down with the rest as Prima turned onto the last sparkling.

Prima cradled the sparkling, blackened optics tracing the glyphs on his helm. The Thirteen, who had not flinched, were now making motions for someone, anyone, to stop the awful prophecies from befalling the last.

“Let this be Optimus Prime, the best of us,” she declared. “For he will have nothing to live up to once we have left.”

Optimus made a noise. It was torn between spotting the joke of an armour-less sparkling, and knowing the meaning behind the name, and the destiny it foretold. It was cruel, the fate that Prima had somehow inflicted upon the generations of Primes down the road, predicting the eventual collapse of the Dynasty. Optimus became Prime, but without a guide or someone to put him through or even offer moral support. Truly the best of them.

“What did you foresee, brother?” Megatronus asked once he had confronted Prima. “What kind of sad fate awaits them? Why are you seeking the sarcophagi?”

“Megatronus...” Prima stated. “Do you truly believe that Cybertron requires more rulers?”

“The Dynasty is all I know, Prima.” Megatronus answered. “I can manage Kaon, and it develops far greater. Yet, the delicate matters of statecraft is led by yourself, Prima.”

“When more leaders are sparked, Megatronus, they are a warning,” Prima darkly foretold. “A sign. Seven have risen magnificently, seven of us shall fall.”

“I shall protect you.”

“I am not worried for myself,” Prima answered. “Rather, I hope that the best of we Thirteen can survive to rule our cities, perhaps wider.”

“I will make mistakes,” Megatronus added.

“Remember to admit your mistakes,” Prima advised. “And apologise. Will you follow me into the sarcophagi chamber, Alpha Trion?”

“I have studies to make there too,” Alpha Trion appeared behind them. “Please, delay the sentinels.”

“Very well.” She walked along the hallway, humming a waltz and tapping onto crazy pavings I have never seen in Cybertron. The other two Primes led the way, and we came to a room filled with twelve triangular plaques laid out.

Prima traced each and every one, feeling her way towards the last, the one that matched the sigil hidden somewhere on her helm. Alpha Trion collected a stack of slates and excused himself.

“Are you traversing the dimensions now, Prima?” Megatronus questioned.

“I have a hypothesis,” Prima stated. “These sarcophagi are used by we Primes to jump between dimensions. They are the chief reason why we are feared across dimensions. To destroy them would be to render us trapped within any dimension we are currently in.”

“Yes.”

“What happens when we die?”

“We are transported into the Well of All Sparks.”

“Yes,” Prima agreed. “And we can continue. But, I theorise that, should a sarcophagi be destroyed, and the Prime killed, the Prime's spark cannot pass on to the Well. Stab them. Shoot them. Reduce their frames into constituent atoms. That Prime will remain as a ghost.”

“... that is very well and good,” Megatronus stated. “But why would any of us exchange that power to cross dimensions for immortality?”

“Precisely,” Prima agreed. “Unless you wanted to trap us all here...”

She turned on one heel strut as a guard's cry echoed. “ Prima? Your entourage awaits. ”

“The blue planet that you have been searching for,” Megatronus pensively considered.

“News of the blue planet have arrived to Cybertron,” Prima answered. “I depart within the joor. Once I am there, I can die without regret.”

Afterwards, Prima departed to follow-up on the planet we could now readily identify as Earth. On that time, a secret meeting between six Primes, including Liego Maximo and Megatronus Prime now.

“Our energon imports are too little,” Liego was claiming. “A bit of creative interpretation of the Code will be necessary. What is sentience, but the will to run counter to the universe's whims? They require discipline, they are undeserving of the time granted to them. It is their defects, and ours, which stand in the way that everything functions. Cybertron will be great. It is our duty, as knights sworn to her, that it must be great.”

“Cybertron,” Megatronus finally stated. “What is Cybertron, but a manifestation of our will?”

“You agree, brother?” Liego simpered. “Those who cannot see it – literally – and who hide their optics for shame of their imperfection should not lead us.”

“Oh, Liego,” Megatronus dismissed, walking out. “It is not for her shame that Prima hides her optics in public. It is for your sake.”

“Just like it is for your sake that Prima excuses herself to search for the blue planet?” Liego needled, as a rapping resounded and a Seeker messenger rushed in.

“Great Primes,” the Seeker declared. “P- Prima has made planet-fall, but... Prima has declared the system protected. There is... sentient life upon the blue-green water world.”

“Where is Prima?” Megatronus asked.

“Prima is staying there,” the Seeker bowed his helm, and I thought I recognised a younger Jetfire. “Prima was most insistent.”

“Fourteen galactic convergences, and Prima declares protection on some mud-ball of a planet,” Liego grumbled, dismissing the Seeker with a wave. “Brothers, it is clear that Prima stands against the greater good of Cybertron. She will bring us to ruin at this rate; in fact, it is possible that Unicron's power has addled her processor, causing her to destroy our efforts at building Cybertron.”

“But, Liego-”

“Silence, Nexus,” Liego regarded Megatronus. “Well, Megatronus? Will you not defend the precious Prima?”

“I will determine this with a signal. Wait for my reply.” Megatronus stormed out to gather his own staff, to build the solar harvester on Earth.

The scene faded, opening to part of Petra, maybe Egypt. Prima was facing Megatronus now, both of them armed and dangerous. By Prima's side were five other Primes, all armed. No Seekers, since all of them had been thrown off-planet by Megatronus. Several human-like figures I could spot, their black eyes panicked and widened as they ran from the giant metal creatures.

“Megatronus?” Prima asked, sweet and confused. “What is going on?”

“This planet may be endearing, in its own fashion, but it could not be worth discarding Cybertron for,” Megatronus growled. “Why, Prima? Why do you curtail our means of survival?”

“I'm sorry, Megatronus,” Prima spread her arms. “I got carried away. I wanted to wait for you to come here. The Seekers say that this planet has the most beautiful sunsets.”

“The sunsets do not matter!” Megatronus bellowed, but he was wavering. “These... people, the dominant sentients, are barely more than elevated multicellular organisms! You who I called brother. How could you have come to hate me so? Is this what you wanted, to die in darkness and obscurity? The energon of this sun, this yellowed star, will cure your eyes! Why do you always take the high moral ground?”

“True, circumstances would always lead us to hard choices. Is that not why we must lead virtuous lives?” Prima spoke hollowly. “Megatronus... I have asked nothing from you, but now I plead. Please, do not do this.”

“Will you forgive me if I... did?” Megatronus slowly asked.

“I... will try,” Prima admitted. “I don't think I will find the willpower to. I will try. Please, Megatronus... put the spear down?”

He let go of the spear... then started to lunge for her as the weapon clattered. “No! Prima !”

I held back a gasp as Prima was impaled in the back strut by the other five Primes. Her frame shuddered, and we took a step back at the blatant coolness that Liego Maximo pulled his weapon out.

“Mega... tro.... us...?”

Prima's frame collapsed in the sands of what would later be Petra. It was quick, horrific, and all the more painful as it was brothers turning on a single blind, trusting brother. Even Megatron started at the violence of the treachery.

“Finally,” Liego Maximo groaned, their weapons withdrawing. “The all-seeing glitch is sent to the Well. Megatronus, you'll need the Matrix to start the harvester.”

“Prima...!” the Fallen's armour was stained with the energon, shaking the greying frame. “Wait, I'm going to get you to Solus. Prima... wake up, please...”

“Oh, stop it,” Liego dismissed. “They might not say it, but Alpha Trion and Vector Prime will thank me for removing the main detractor of their policies. Solus might actually visit my berth, now that you're freed from Prima's monopolising. You did know that this was the only way, yes?”

“You killed our brother for it!” Megatronus Prime growled.

“Prima was only a relic,” Liego dismissed. “Always kneeling before you, always requesting little favours that you do 'cause you felt bad. Come along, brother. We have to hide the body and put out the star.”

“We're not taking... it back to Cybertron?” one of the other Primes asked.

“No, too weird. We'll just say that Prima wanted to stay on this filthy planet,” Liego waved a servo about, sending the humans running for cover. “Organic life, Megatronus! It's bizarre! The planet will be a suitable grave for Prima, yes? A final honour, being buried upon this blue planet. The least we could do for the prophetess, the mad dreamer who kept curtailing Cybertron.”

“But what about the organics?”

“They can barely talk. How can they choose?” Liego sighed. “It is the best choice. The good choice.”

“Yes,” Electricity crackled, with the Fallen's space-bridge generator. “How can they choose the fate of their planet? Not like you. Not like all of you. This planet shall be a befitting grave... for all of you.”

“M- Megatronus!”

He teleported them into a mountain.

Now, the process has become classified, so the best I could have summarised it involved only one sentence; rocks inside spark chamber is damn painful and takes a while to die. The five Primes died in horror, agony, and buried under tonnes of dirt and stone, surrounding their victim, who held the Matrix close. A tomb, made by a grieving, guilty brother still in mourning.

“No...” Optimus would have started crying had he tear ducts, and even Megatron had chosen to look away at the slow suffocation. Sentinel Prime looked like he would rather purge his tanks there.

“Eldest of us...” Digits scraped at the mountain, tracing glyphs that would be eroded by wind and sun and rain. “We killed you...”

A human crawled out of a hole in the mound of dirt, eyes turning to him, glowing electric blue. Snik-snik , the human female precursor communicated with her clicking tongue. Fallen one.

“Prima!” Megatronus leapt, but the human was scurrying away, back through the maze of caves. “Prima! Eldest brother! I'm sorry! I admit it, please come back! I did it!”

Some Seekers arrived then, took one look at the Fallen's energon-stained form and current ranting against the heavens, and high-tailed it back to Cybertron to claim that Megatronus had fallen from grace.

“He kept saying about how did it,” the Seeker scout added at the end of the very cruel report. “Very insistent, he was.”

“Thank you,” Alpha Trion dismissed sadly. “Megatronus, who has targeted a sentient population, killed our brothers, and stolen the Matrix... you who have fallen from grace, shall henceforth be stripped of your name. You shall be known, only as a servant of Unicron, nightmare and betrayer... the Fallen Prime.”

Back on Earth, sand gathered in the Fallen's hand, melting into glass that spattered and steamed as rain fell over the land that would be Petra.

“You who I called brother, how could we have come to hate you so?” the grieving and angered Prime roared. “Our brothers have killed you, the best of us. Is this what you wanted, brothers? Let my spark burn, and never mind how high the cost may grow, this will still be so: I will never let you go. DIE, LIKE OUR BROTHER!”

We watched him teleport back to Cybertron, slay Solus Prime and Amalgamous Prime in his rage, destroy the sarcophagi all except his own, steal his own, be beaten out, kill Alpha Trion but get chased off of Cybertron and be hunted by the remaining, now mortal, Primes. Slowly, worming his way back with those entropic arts, start to destroy the Dynasty. Start to influence the destiny of Cybertron, towards war and utter destruction, to take the throne. To impose his order upon the planet, upon those in his service... such that the only choice to make was the correct choice. The beginnings of good and evil.

The scene faded, back at the fading library, and the library blended between the aircraft hangar and Alpha Trion's domain.

“Do you see now?” Alpha Trion stated sadly.

“Prima was dying, and still managed to thoroughly curse the Dynasty,” Megatron contemptuously stated, but he looked impressed. “That's assuming that you believe in superstitions, but it's a good use of rumour scaremongering. What was her name?”

“She was Prima,” Optimus replied.

“As a human,” Megatron amended.

“Dahlia Su Daji,” I answered grimly. “Dahlia for the flower that means deception in flower symbolism, and Daji for the infamous Chinese concubine who was said to have been possessed by a fox demon to orchestrate a dynasty's demise.”

“A very suitable name,” Megatron purred. “The flower of deception, one who practically invented the concept by fooling even the Unmaker. And the human who possessed a Prime to bring down a dynasty. Poetic justice, Prime, that the human you fight so hard to defend started this war!”

“Those who ignore the past have no past... and no future,” Alpha Trion, the one I knew only to be part of the Wall of All Sparks now, murmured. “Prima was at fault, too, for not reinforcing her protection of organic life. I was at fault, wallowing in my slates and never noticing Megatronus. Each one of us contributed something that gathered into the mess today, and no other spark was as big as Prima's to forgive. Until now.”

“What good will it do to know now?” Sentinel Prime argued. “Is any of that even real?”

“Because you must remember,” Alpha Trion smiled sadly, as he faded. “Before we were in factions, before time and destiny placed us on opposite sides, before Prima died, and took the sanity of Megatronus... we were brothers, once.”

He faded, and with his disappearance the central pillar of the space bridge clicked. Electricity sparked, and within their confines started a space bridge, green pulsing invitingly.

Optimus and Megatron slowly faced each other.

“Truce?” Megatron said.

“Truce,” Prime confirmed. “Sentinel.”

“Hmm?” the old Prime shuttered his optics.

“Set course to Simfur,” Optimus stated. “We will end this.”

Chapter Text

"Why are we working with them-" Sideswipe clammed up once we passed through the space bridge to Cybertron. "Oh."

The planet was as dark and cold as I recalled, plus rubble lay everywhere, at least until we looked up to the skies, clearer than I remembered. No acid clouds hanging around. Just that Cybertron was glowing again, and the lines of light dancing across of Simfur shimmered in the cold and darkness of a half-dead planet. Cybertron was... warm.

"It's warm," Ironhide reflected in wonder.

"Not possible," Sentinel wondered. "The planetary power generators should have been shut down. How..."

Megatron hefted his fusion cannon, the Decepticon troops behind him crawling out and armed to the teeth. "I'm fairly sure that we're hunting only for two, maybe three mechs," Megatron commented. "One of them are blind. This will be primarily searching."

The ground shuddered. Metal houses started creaking, improved turrets rotated. Slowly, the ground folded up and houses began to piece themselves together to form more armed mechs.

"City sentinels," Sentinel breathed. "Metrotitans. But they were legends!"

"You just had to say it," Mudflap cursed.

"Oh, shut yer yap!" Skidz and Mudflap dived as one volley began to hit.

"Decepticons!" Megatron bellowed. "Attack!"

"Head for Simfur," Prowl added.

"Soundwave: take over communications. Prowl: tactical planning. Metrotitan: defeat necessary."

"Frag," I added.

"Ironhide, ground-to-air," Prowl added as Jetfire swooped in the distance. "Shockwave, Scorponok, on ground recon. Starscream, dogfight that Seeker."

"Why should I-"

"To all Decepticons," Megatron growled. "Autobot Prowl is the best tactician in any battle. You will follow his instructions or get us all crushed under the Metrotitans. That is all."

"Fine!" Starscream shot up to begin strafing the Metrotitans.

"Soundwave, coordinate in my absence."

"The Metrotitans must be powered from the Simfur Temple," Optimus deduced. "Simfur itself was built to surround it. Megatron, Jazz, follow me."11

"Soundwave: understood."

"Driller!" Megatron roared. The drilling Decepticon started to dig through parts of the Metrotitan, the behemoth of a Transformer beginning to shoot at them.

"Prowl, make sure that Sentinel can operate the gate if we need to fall back," Optimus snapped.

"Understood," the Autobot SIC was in place, even as Sideswipe and Arcee started to dash on the Metrotitan. "Ratchet?"

"I'll be good," Ratchet stared as several smaller defence drones deployed. "How did those two mechs get the power going again, anyway? Cybertron exhausted all its power sources before the exodus."

Good question, I thought as I raced and transformed, not used to Cybertron's gravity or the new atmosphere that seemed laden with heavy gases. "Where's the Simfur Temple?"

"There," Optimus had transformed ahead, allowing Megatron to hover in his own alt-mode. "Known capabilities?"

"Don't let her talk," Megatron dryly answered.

"You've barely ever talked to her!" I was scandalised.

"Yes, and she nearly convinced me, even though I wasn't the target," Megatron snorted. "Anything that can brainwash the Unmaker like that? You don't ask questions, you shoot. That's why we had a shoot-on-sight order on your SpecOps head."

"Ah, that's the compliment," I mocked, transforming as I performed a ramp jump to spiral up to the Simfur Temple built by the Thetacons in Sentinel's reign. "What's this dust on the ground, anyway? It's wet. Feels like..."

The two faction leaders trooped in behind me, stopping at the sight of me on all four wheels. "Is there something?"

"Yeah," I scooped up some of the dust. "Carbon compounds."

"That can't be right," Megatron stated.

"Carbonic acid," I recalled. "From the acid rains. The thing about rains, is that they actually need a sun to form."

"We go in, then," Optimus decided as I got back up, following them behind.

The Simfur Temple was really not much, just a rectangular room based on the old sketches of old Simfur. Murals and statuary surrounded the room, and in the far end was supposed to be an altar bearing the Allspark. It had been smashed open, and laid out upon it was a metallic thing.

I walked closer, before shuddering. "Dahlia..."

The metal from the pacemaker must have penetrated the bone already taking on its shape even after the flesh had rotted off and the bones broken down and petrified. It left the metal, in a crude parody of a human skeleton, still with a small pace-maker hanging from where it had first built into the ribcage and went from there. It was crude and mortal, and made its point so well, that a human had been here, lying under the Allspark. This part of Dahlia had survived to see Cybertron rise and fall, all the while sleeping under the old altar that bore the Allspark until we jettisoned it into space. The witness, who had become the wisdom of Primes.

"A human skeleton?" Megatron registered in disbelief as I gently cradled it back into its coffin.

"A silent witness," Optimus replied as I took the whole thing. The small podium had been built hollow; a receptacle for an old body that had long broken down. "Where do you think is Prima?"

"I don't know," I picked up the box to set it close to my spark chamber, where in my alt-mode would be the driver's seat. It was a tight fit, but my main gal was worth it. This impression of her was all I had left. "Inside?"

We left the main room moving towards the antechambers of the priests. Our pedes echoed, clacking amidst the silent statues on guard in recesses set in the walls.

"You know..." I mused at some of the statues. "They're pretty damn lifelike."

"Please don't say that."

"Why?" I asked.

"If they're lifelike, they're done by a very good artist or they're-" Optimus turned back, and then stumbled back.

I looked back. "Frag."

"What?" Megatron made to look back, but Optimus rearranged ourselves such that our backs were all to each other.

"Remember the phone box?" I asked. "The angels have the phone box?"

"I think I remember them," Optimus finally vocalised. "I wanted a T-shirt."

"That would be hard to find," I eyed the statues that were definitely not in the hallway a moment ago, and wondered if the Boss's sartorial choices were, in fact, a symptom of the insanity most Primes seemed to have. "Statues in recesses? With barely any space for two mechs? So the question should be... how long we got until the statues kill us?"

Megatron finally found his voice. "I am fairly sure those statues weren't supposed to be there klicks ago."

Optimus vented. It made a sound like 'mimblewimble'. That is, if Optimus was undignified enough to make that sound, and if I had proof of it.

"I'm fairly sure we don't need to blink," I ventured at last. Then I spotted one of them. "Why are they point- crap."

The lights began to blink and shudder, painting the cavernous hallway in some weird disco lighting, at which the statues stayed in place, but began waving. Shutter, shutter, and the waving Cybertronian statuary moved like those stop-motion things. 'Course, I only had that film with the skeleton head to compare, but I was pretty sure Jack wasn't going to be rescuing Sandy Claws here any time soon.

Megatron shot at them. The ping clearly invited a lot of smoke, but left the statue in its taunting dance. "Impervious. Unfortunately."

"But they're not moving at the base," I reasoned. "There's a pattern."

"Figure out the pattern quickly," Optimus muttered. "Please."

"Okay," I looked up and down in time to the lights flickering and the grind of gears. Megatron shot another statue, which had no effect but made the swing of his cannon hit me to the ground. I blinked at the crazy paving, wondering which Thetacon thought this was a good idea-

Wait. Thetacon?

This crazy paving was not Cybertronian...

"Optimus," I asked, as something occurred to me. "What did the Thetacons build the temple on, around the altar?"

"The old palace," Optimus answered. "Its foundations were extremely solid. Will my answer help us get away?"

"Prima walked here, back when Alpha Trion showed us," I recalled. "This must be the castle's automated security. That's why they're not moving from their perches, they're just... reaching out."

"Are they harmless?"

Megatron threw his blade. A lot of metal dust hit the ground upon contact. "No."

"Wait," I muttered, concentrating on the flicker of lights timed with the movements of the statues. Prima's humming, in my memory. It was faint, but there were two advantages I had that no other Cybertronian ever had. One, I knew Dahlia Su, the musician who was Prima.

Second, I knew the movie. Regular movie nights pay off when they lead you into these exact situations.

"Dancing bears, painted wings, things I almost remember..." I hummed. "And a song someone sings, once upon a December..."

It took two repeats, but I finally got the tempo of it. Then I grimaced, motioned to follow my lead, and closed my eyes.

Tap tap tap, Tap tap tap, Tap tap tap, Tap tap tap -

Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong...

"Dancing bears, tap-tap, painted wings, tap-tap, things I almost remember, tap. And a song, tap-tap, someone sings, tap-tap, once upon a December, tap."

I got through the rest of the song, but then once I got to the end I realised that, no matter what, there was no way I could convince Megatron to waltz across the damn hallway. True enough, Megatron was firing again, and I swore with each blast the statues were advancing...

"Quit shooting!" I called. "You need to ignore them."

Megatron peered speculatively at the wall, but even he shook his helm later, knowing from experience that the old Simfur palace was built strong enough to withstand several strafing runs up to when the stars burn out. Optimus sighed, checked the crazy paving on the ground, and then held a hand out to Megatron. "The lights will distract you."

So, slowly, Megatron begrudgingly put a servo into the proffered one, and his optics shuttered close.

It was actually quite diabolic, I reflected, watching the two bumble through the waltz to narrowly get vaporised. We relied so much on our vision, that this kind of hallway where the statues moved when you looked away and the lights flickered would be scary to anyone not authorised to enter. There was a pattern, though; in the flicker and in the grinding gears if one would stop to listen to it.

We never stopped to listen to the music if we could muscle through it. Our strength prevented us from understanding a lot of things, I pondered. The humans, though... how is it that, in only ten thousand years, they could begin to grasp at the concept of weakness when Cybertron forgot it? Their weakness made them cowards, but made them find the creativity that Cybertron lacked so much, made them realise early on that they could not rule or impose alone. We Autobots forgot that in the defence of life, and the Decepticons forgot that in pursuit of power.

Poetic madness, I reflected upon, as I walked into the final antechamber at last. Art that doubled as a form of prediction, honed in the mind of the wisest of Primes.

I was facing Prima at last.

"Wow," she said. "You're slow."

"What the frag?" I yelled to her. "You know what I had to do to get across your Weeping Angel montage? What Megatron is still going through? And you still call me slow?"

"I hope it was creative, your method," Prima answered primly. "Did you get blackmail material?"

"...yes," I admitted sheepishly. That image capture was so amusing it warranted spreading the word, even if it involved Prime and former Protector waltzing it on.

I looked at Prima now. "Prima... what have you done?"

Sparks rolled from the dark armour Prima had. Her form burst with light of wavelengths close to ultraviolet, perhaps more, and with that light burned a terrible heat. Her form was literally like the formation of a star, and right there I understood why she was the Warrior of Light, the glowing star of order. That also probably explained why Optimus wore flame decals; because his ancestor was literally on fire.

"This temple, I am told, ensures that any nearby stars will orbit the Allspark and provide it with energy," Prima stated. "My existence destroyed your ruling dynasty, your planet, and it will probably destroy mine as well. You must hate me, for creating and destroying this civilisation... your world was destroyed because of me."

"None of it was your fault," I protested. "Some people just want to watch the world burn."

"Do they?" Prima sadly asked. "Ours is a high and lonely destiny, supposed to be borne by thirteen but desired by individuals. Enough to kill their own kin for it."

"The Fallen didn't kill you," I argued.

"I know," Prima quietly answered. "Five others of my brothers did. They didn't know better. They were carelessly hoping that, without me, Cybertron would have all the energy it could take, and they could rule without consequence. Excess would kill Cybertron as easily as lack would; of my descendants, only two understood. They didn't understand, and that's the most painful truth."

Maybe if I talked her down, I wouldn't have a murder-suicide on my aft. "But we understand now. We understood it now. Please, just... power down. We'll find more energy, settle somewhere else, find another way."

"Enough," Prima breathed. "Even without sight, I can sense Cybertron's death. I can sense that it is humbled and destroyed, by the fault of our own. Sometimes I grew to hate Cybertron, this planet who stole everything from my head. I never was a warrior. I never wanted this. I finally realise now, that this won't end. The only way is to remove the object of hate."

Her blackened optics turned, but she saw nothing, mainly listening to the roar of the Metrotitans reverberating outside, as the will of Cybertron made manifest and powered by Prima's spark raged. Behind her, the rest of the broken sigil of Prima shattered, and within it lay a door, through which inky darkness lit up with the lights and whistles of a serious fire-fight.

Prima walked out, and I followed. Optimus and Megatron followed soon after, watching the luminous form of Prima lighting the darkness. Even then, the Decepticon leader turned his helm down. The Autobot leader followed.

"All of you, who claim to be worthy... show me that you have any wisdom at all!" Prima challenged, radiant as a newborn star. Like some goddess of liberty, or of light, or of justice, or of fate, Prima was not to be looked upon directly. Dahlia and Prima had played so many roles that, even if Cybertron was Primus' creation, Cybertron's civilisation was hers. "Why is it, that all of you great titans who wander through the stars, warring and fighting, must resort to this?"

I glimpsed, through the aureole of light, Ironhide skidding back from one of Jetfire's barrages sweeping across, held only by Soundwave and Shockwave as they began to team up against the Seeker with their tentacle-fu. Ratchet was aiding the fight with a few mini-size 'Cons in triage and fine work.

"You play games with me?" Megatron growled, wielding his fusion cannon. It fired, albeit a touch pathetic as Prima retaliated with a laser that fried his left cadulen after shrugging off the direct shot.

"All of you are so wrapped up in your strengths, you forgot about weaknesses," Prima reflected. "Decepticons... Autobots... I wouldn't feel a thing about saving all of you. I also wouldn't feel a thing over murdering every single one of you."

"How is it that Prima, you would turn to this now?" Optimus entreated.

"Are you threatening us?" Megatron snapped, clutching at his cadulen. The energon that dripped from the wound ignited upon contact with the light, casting pale fires. Prima was officially dangerous.

"This has nothing to do with threatening or ordering!" Prima boomed, her voice seemingly magnified to the ends of the planet. The searing heat spread, and the metal nearly boiled straight off as we stumbled. Decepticon drones were climbing the face of the surrounding walls, ignored by the great titan.

Prima lowered her servo. The light receded somewhat. "This is a wish. For the lives of those Cybertronians lost to war, for them not to have given them in vain."

"To enemies of the Primes, face the fury of Jetfire!" the old Seeker swooped down, flinging a missile at Starscream before landing to do battle against the drones. "Now you see how we brought the pain in my day!"

The Fallen blinked into existence, pensively considering the trio of mechs armed against Prima. His armour shredded in the heat, leaving dark red sparks trailing across his own helm and frame. The narrowed expression his face permanently established swept the balcony, as he wielded his spear towards us.

Hot on his trail, a streak followed by the chime of a grandfather clock heralded Vector Prime's arrival.

"Welcome back, Prima," Vector Prime greeted cordially. "I'm glad that you've finally returned."

"I am back, Vector Prime," Prima greeted. "You seem well. Megatronus?"

"He is alive," the Fallen slowly answered. "The rest of his circumstances lie irrelevant."

"That's quite mean, Megatronus. Vector Prime is a dear brother and protector of Cybertron, too. To outright dismiss him is not tactically sound."

"He did not bring Rhisling," the Fallen added. "Leave the planet to its grave, Prima. You have given enough to Cybertron."

"Oh?" Prima turned, almost stumbling if the Fallen hadn't caught her. "Oh, thank you. But you know that's wrong, right?"

"It is my mistake," Prima resolved. "I must end what I have started."

"Then the fault is mine!" Vector Prime retorted. "Do not take out your anger on the innocent!"

"Why?" Optimus asked. "Why is it that Cybertron must die?"

"Because neither of you will surrender," Prima replied flatly. "I will burn Cybertron to ashes before it comes to that. I should never have done anything here."

"No," Optimus replied. "For your actions made us realise that we have a choice. The fact that we keep making the bad choice... is a fault. Please... As you are transforming into a star, I cannot fight you and win. We have never had that hope of winning, since you simply had to decide not to lose and eradicate us with but a thought. But you held on, for some reason waiting here... was it not because you wished that things were not so?"

Prima deflected Megatron's dagger to her spark, one luminescent servo slapping him on the helm. Megatron flew back and did not get up. "He seems to disagree."

"Megatron has not realised that there are times where fighting and tyranny does not solve everything," Vector Prime commented.

"Yes," Optimus reflected. "But he struggles still. Prima, if you do this... you will have made us very desperate, very quickly. Please... help me save our kind."

Metal bubbled, melting as Prima considered. Her armour burned, brighter and hotter as I realised that she was already self-sustaining, and that she was going to burn this planet in a supernova. If she went nova here, it would hit the core of Cybertron, at which it would implode. "And this is what the best of us produces?"

"What are you doing, Prima?" Vector Prime demanded.

"Please tell me, Vector," Prima purred. "Was I human?"

"You were," Vector confirmed. "How is this relevant to destroying Cybertron?"

"It's not," Prima dithered. "I would have already gotten on to it if I truly wished to destroy Cybertron. On the contrary. You took me, a woman who would have otherwise died insignificantly, a casualty in your war, and made me into the most legendary figure of an alien civilisation whose age spans the universe. You made me functionally immortal. You have such a bad habit of sacrificing brothers still, Vector Prime."

"Still holding the high moral ground, Prima," Vector impatiently stated. "But my quarrel is not with you."

"It is with Megatronus," Prima nodded. "The one who destroyed the sarcophagi, and left your brothers trapped in this dimension. There are thirteen sarcophagi, two of which are left. Megatronus has one. It remains to be inferred that you hold the other."

"You've suffered much, Prima," Vector Prime whispered. "I will grant you that death now. Megatronus and you... finally, this will end."

"Prima," the Fallen groaned. "Our brother and descendants will never leave us alone, till we have passed to the Well, and thus transferred our wisdom to the Matrix. They will silence your wisdom again. It seems wasted."

Prima tightened her hold over Megatronus' arm. "So it would seem. Yet, one of them bears his own wisdom. Cybertron must be reborn anew, but there is hope. I bear no love for the Dynasty, but...our fates are uncertain to us at our choosing."

The Fallen glared. One red lash of light had a ravine destroyed between us and them. "We are surrounded," the Fallen reported dryly.

"Yes..." Prima agreed, her voice quiet. "Why do we fall, Megatronus?"

"You still haven't given up, have you?" he rumbled quietly. "The Primes who loved Cybertron more than you. Vector Prime who loved Cybertronian civilisation more than anything. You, who loved this world, this universe so much that you would challenge the gods to win."

"Never, Megatronus." Prima smiled at last as her optics glowed blue as they caught fire. "Vector... did you predict this?"

"...no," Vector Prime admitted. "You were always the one that no one could predict, and yet who lit the way. If anything you are my brother. You... and Megatronus."

"Then you have my gratitude," Dahlia Su, aka Prima answered. "Megatronus... Rise."

"Pri... ma..."

Everything went bright. The ground trembled, still breaking, and yet the radiance continued burning its unforgiving way to cleanse the rubble and destroy entire settlements. The experience when you were standing in the wake of devastation, waiting on the edge of the unknown... We blinked.

Vector Prime was gone. It was unknown if he had ever been there, but perhaps he teleported.

The light of the stars were in the distance now. Cybertron was making its way towards it, like magnetite dust floats to iron, trembling as I stumbled, the planet shaking. The inescapable gravity was pulling us closer with each klick, despite the sheer magnitude of distance between us and it.

Slowly, the heat embraced us, like some mythical solar deity might embrace the land back on Earth. Now, its embrace was getting closer; close enough to turn Cybertron into ash. I couldn't tell; it was too bright that I was blinded by the light.

Chapter Text

“At this rate, that miniature star will reach activation energy enough to self-sustain,” Prowl confirmed via comm as he inspected the view of Cybertron's skies. “At that stage, it will be impossible to stop the birth of a new star where she is.”

“Is that even possible?” I demanded, racing behind Optimus and Megatron back to the battlefield. The Metrotitan was no longer fighting, only because its defence drones were focusing more on building a wall. They were waiting... for what?

“I have given up on considering impossibility where Dahlia Su is concerned,” Prowl replied. “Prima was the leader of the Thirteen Original Primes. It would also account for the Warrior of Light moniker. But why would the Fallen... what did she say to him to make him help her?”

“Sentinel!” Optimus hollered towards the rather bullied scientist Prime turned space-bridge technician. “They escaped. We must evacuate!”

“The planetary space bridge won't make it in time!” the other Prime hollered back, calculating with Starscream.

“Call a retreat!” the other screeched.

“Our home-world is about to plunge into that star, and you can't do anything?” Megatron demanded.

“There has never been a scientific reason for Cybertron’s continued rotation, gravity and atmosphere without a sun before,” Sentinel Prime flatly delivered. “The fact that Cybertron hasn’t plunged into thousands of minor and major gravity wells in the course of Cybertron’s slumber seemed like a miracle. Right now, though, Prima's madness is going to destroy Cybertron if it continues, or if that star cluster reaches nova, much less supernova.”

“But, that technique of turning one's spark into a star-”

“It's suicide,” Sentinel flatly delivered. “I have no idea how the Original managed it, or how the Fallen managed to copy such a technique. Or even how much energy she would expend before collapse, since that star would be likely skip over the stages for nova and supernova, to reach hypernova. There is nothing we can do to save Cybertron now.”

A lot of the mess that happened would have been recorded. I just remembered, seeing Prima suddenly go out of control, and I realised that it would be a method just like Dahlia; go for broke. Sure, it was horrific and fatalistic, but it was Dahlia. Crazy and unstoppable and... weak. Doomed to the sidelines otherwise. Living millions of years to search for Earth and return, only to die here. Waking up and realising that everything was changing, and eating, sleeping and music were no longer the same.

What have we done? The question followed me as I clasped at Prowl, desperately waiting amidst the hopeless pull of gravity, the song echoing around us...

...the song...

Unknown soldier lying on the floor,
Explosions forever,
Now you take me away from danger...

We had always covered up your face,
Out there who will watch your back?
Because I don't know if I can stay here...

Game over,
Now we hate our brothers
No longer can move my feet...!
 

“We're going to die!” Starscream... well, screamed.

“Calculations for the space bridge ruined!” Sentinel yelled. “We won't make it!”

“No...” Sideswipe moaned as he was tackled by the other pair of twins.

But it's
Keep on keeping on,
And it's I just wanna know
Inside it's I don't want to know
Over head they fly high it's going
On and on and on,
Will we oversee the smile of love and peace for everyone?
You can be sure,
I'll be back again...

“Please remain calm and take shelter,” Prowl and Soundwave directed. “The planet will at least shield us enough to reach the stratosphere... perhaps.”

Prowl moved to wrap his arms round my chassis in return. Maybe I felt his spark chamber, but then, I was breaking down and ready to die as I heard the song, the music of the spheres.

Broken window glass is everywhere,
Explosions forever,
Now you save me from oblivion...

We had always covered up your face,
Out there who will watch your back?
Because I don't know if I can stay here...

Game over,
Now we hate our brothers,
No longer can move my feet...!

“Can't you hear that?” I asked, optics widened. The song...

“Doesn't matter,” Prowl murmured as we waited, seeing the star flare... and age?

But it's
Keep on keeping on,
And it's I just wanna know
Inside it's I don't want to know
Over head they fly high it's going
On and on and on,
Will we oversee the smile of love and peace for everyone?
You can be sure,
I'll be back again.

The first hint I got was when Starscream stopped screaming. In fact, the Seeker, with some help from the battered Jetfire, was consulting with Sentinel Prime. Impossibly, gloriously, the star hung suspended there, a new sun for the metal planet.

And I remember a long time ago,
I'll be there for you and please wait for me.
Oh you must believe me...
Better you believe your mind.

Impossible, glorious, and even stranger because Megatron, side-by-side with Optimus Prime and Sentinel Prime was there. All three had detached the parallel processing cables, choosing to gawk at the sun as we felt Cybertron shift into orbit and the first sunrise in millennia over what had been Iacon.

“Finally!” Jetfire cheered, celebrating at the apex of the Metrotitan. “Cybertron is saved!”

“Cybertron...” Megatron whispered, collapsing to stare at the heavens, upon which the phenomenon of Rayleigh scattering was covering Cybertron's heavens once more. “You are saved at last.”

But it's
Keep on keeping on
And it's I just wanna know
Inside it's I don't want to know
Over head they fly high it's going
On and on and on,
Will we oversee the smile of love and peace for everyone?
You can be sure,
I'll be back again.

Nobody had moved or spoken, much less shot at each other, for nearly a cycle. Sunlight had spread over Cybertron’s surface, warm and amazing and singing. Silence had started because of the sunrise. It continued because of what we had done, and what the human had restored to us. Under sunlight, the disaster lay bared from darkness, not interrupted by the starlight of the past. The utter destruction. The remnants of fallen mechs from both sides. The char marks from Cybertron's civil war, and the brutality of it upon all, be it Autobot or Decepticon.

“How much more must be sacrificed?” Optimus had asked at last, and his voice had been hushed less from awe than weary sorrow.

Megatron looked out over the destroyed world with no immediate answer, and seemed to give the question real thought. “No more.”

And I remember a long time ago,
I'll be there for you and please wait for me.
Oh you must believe me,
Better you believe your mind...

“Well, there are still reparations,” Sentinel started. He was ignored. The two of them were still giving Sentinel the cold shoulder for odd, personal reasons which might escalate future wars; I've to sit them all done and talk about what the humans called really screwed up families.

There had been no shots fired, or promises made. There had just been sunlight, the sacrifice of the oldest opposites for Cybertron, and everything mercilessly illuminated by it. Sunlight that meant energy for the planet, fuel to be converted into energon... light to find metals for rebuilding, recycling of rubble for repairs...

Clouds were forming in the distance; the acid rains to sweep it all away. The titans underfoot rumbled, settling into recharge in the warmth of a sun, the wall of solar cells glimmering to absorb more power. Mechs faced the sun, unbelievably just basking in the warmth of its glow, without the intervention of arms.

Sure, Cybertron had a long way to go, and a lot of ugly history, but... there was a sun. There was energy. We could synthesise energy from it... we could find warmth and heat. As for reproduction...

I felt in my spark for the tiny coffin, the one where Dahlia's skeleton impression lay. I looked down at the skeleton Allspark, this ugly reminder of mortality that now housed life; that once housed a wonderful human, and a wonderful Prime, named Dahlia Su Daji and Prima... The skeleton glimmered in the sun of its ghost.

Six millions years of civil war, and this was how it had ended: in the warm silence, with questions unanswered and the spheres singing.

Our kind had space travel, and it was a matter of selecting personnel to scout it. Bumblebee was our scout, and he did his job admirably, albeit with a sort of reluctance.

I received the data packets of the image captures klicks later. Even though we had suspicions, seeing the new star- the new sun as a binary star, arranged so close as to hand suspended in the midst. Cybertron had fallen into orbit around the remnants of two old Primes, and now the new suns of the galaxy seemed to be happily shining in the remains of a wide-scale spatial and temporal locking field that had collapsed after stabilisation, if the surrounding planets' new curvature had anything to say.

So it seemed, and so I reported it at the next meeting.

“They are not sentient?” Megatron asked warily. The old Primes seemed to have a bad habit of dragging themselves back from the other world at a moment's notice. None of the Decepticons still wanted to get close to the

“It does not seem so,” I neutrally answered. “Only time will tell.”

“Taking one half of the star would solve our energon crisis,” Sentinel mused.

“The new suns are interdicted from experimentation,” Optimus automatically said. “Cybertron would require time at adapt to them once more.”

Yes, time to repair, to get back up. To rise again.

“Did you think they loved each other?” Optimus asked at the end of an endless series of Autobot-Decepticon negotiations. It was long and slow, but the threat of a flaring sun and energy on Cybertron meant that neither side was willing to cave in.

“Who?” the former, or current, Lord High Protector glared.

“The Fallen and Prima,” Optimus said.

I gagged. “Boss!”

“I would not know,” Megatron simply reflected. “He never spoke about the murders. When he spoke of them, it was not kind. I believed it to be jealousy, or simple hatred, like how I felt hate for Sentinel and you some days.”

“Oh.” Optimus pondered. “I think... Megatronus Prime loved her, and that power of love conquered his love of power, until Prima died. It then became an emotion more passionate than hope, deeper than despair, stronger than rage. Stronger than good and darker than evil.”

“That love seems remarkably similar to insanity,” Megatron remarked, looking out to the heavens once more. “Did the Matrix tell you that?”

Optimus considered, pondering carefully. “Yes and no. Prima's wisdom is a double-edged thing, one prone to trip me as much as any other.”

“Maybe all Primes love so very deeply as well.” I speculated. “Perhaps that is their blessing, and their curse.”

“So what is it that I love?” Optimus challenged.

“Ideals,” Megatron instantly supplied. “You were always the idealistic one, no matter what. It is frightening, sometimes, how you and your ideals would always take on the world no matter what, and in those proclamations convince even those against you. I considered it a form of madness, but now I wonder if the great Primes held that sort of charisma naturally. It seemed so with Prima.”

I remembered Prima, how she had bent the old Seeker Jetfire to her will, had immediately deduced the Fallen's plans and countered them, had still managed to manipulate the Autobots and NEST as a human civilian, and all the way back when we first met, institute her rules with nary an argument. Then I wondered if Optimus was capable of such magnificent bastardry as well.

I hope that never came to be.

“In one way, love screwed over and redeemed Cybertron,” I mused to the Boss later. “It's... trite and cheap and fairly crazy.”

“I see,” Optimus consulted stacks upon stacks of image captures of the Simfur annals. The Matrix took pride of place amongst the annals, its light casting a cold pall upon the desk. “Prima wrote nothing during her function, but apparently the hallway leading to the sarcophagi chamber was her design. Alpha Trion kept meticulous records, though, some of these very well hidden. All the brothers found Prima demanding, but never realised that she was motivating them towards civilisation. They noted that Megatronus Prime was violent sometimes, but sweet on Solus Prime, and respected Prima, since they had harrowing arguments as well. Prima, though... the decision for each Prime to rule individually was not taken well.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Makes sense to give them territory.”

“Prima pioneered the functioning government of Simfur then,” Optimus read. “The problem was living up to the legacy of a blind, mad mech that no one could depose, since a hostile takeover would mean admitting that the Primes were flawed and unknowing of what to do. Megatronus broke that particular, that Prime Nova had to depend on the blessing of Prima not to have the Dynasty sink to oblivion.”

I pondered. “Why did they kill Prima in the first place?”

“She was blind,” Optimus replied. “Because Prima was different, the only mech not to bear the title of Prime. They were terrified when her predictions kept coming true, and when she went wrong they became more fearful.”

I lowered my helm.

“She loved the Fallen, you know,” Optimus added. “Even after all was said and done, Ms Su... Prima loved all her brothers, but worried over Megatronus the most. Not because he would become the Fallen, but simply because he was alone in a sea of brothers.”

He tapped the Matrix of Leadership, staring out at the window. “I can't contact them. They lie away from the Well of All Sparks, perhaps sleeping, perhaps... maybe, they are together at last to see the sun.”

Outside, the warm disk of Cybertron's new sun glimmered.

“What about you, Optimus?” I asked. “Have you considered family therapy? It's all the rage back on Earth...”

Prowl and I were off shift after my conversation with Prime. We weren't due to get back to Earth yet. The situation was a bit complicated, including that we were outed. Other Seekers scattered on the globe were still present, hiding in plain sight. Some of them had went native, really. It was endearing, in a weird, parasitic sense. Now, though, I saw Ironhide standing outside, maybe sunbathing, reflecting. He was not alone, if the entire Decepticon contingent nearby had anything to say.

The sun flickered between acid clouds, dusk befalling the repairing city of Iacon. Cybertron having a sun, having a rotation again... it was about as weird as the concept of a Cybertronian night-life. Or love. Love that was the pinnacle of emotion, and yet so destructive...

“What do you think?” I asked Prowl. “If the Primes are really, really screwed up.”

“Love is illogical,” Prowl mentioned at last. “But it is what it is. To equate the actions of Cybertron's ruling dynasty with love alone is not possible, since they had different motivations each, granted with their free will.”

“A concept you don't want to explore?” I asked. “Really?”

“It is what it is, Jazz,” Prowl mentioned, joining me to lie on the roof of the temporarily rebuilt Iacon Supreme Court. “What about Dahlia's skeleton? Will we... bring it back to Earth?”

“The new Allspark everyone decided would be placed in Simfur,” I mentioned. “With a full service. Twenty-one fusion cannon salute. The Decepticons were sure that Prima would claw her way out of the Matrix, but so far it seemed that Dahlia Su... there are no more miracles from her.”

“She should rest,” Prowl murmured. “Cybertron has a sun, at least for the next twelve million vorns. It has a chance now, a chance that it has not held for millennia. We have a chance, Jazz.”

Cybertron had a chance. We had a chance, a new start. The possibility was ever so small, but it was not zero. Finally... Cybertron was saved. Was it worth it?

I miss Dahlia.

Maybe, I must have been lost in my processor. To hear footsteps echo behind me must be a sign of madness.

I turned around to regard the ruins, and the solar cells of Metrotitan guardian far as the optic could perceive, soaking up energy in its arms. No footsteps...

You can be sure, I'll be back again...

For however long that this sun would remain... Cybertron would be blessed, to rise after death. The cost of it was its first Prime. Her wisdom would leave on in the scars of Simfur, where its Metrotitan slumbered still, gathering energy. In the Matrix, where her wisdom was now stored, the sum total of Cybertron's ancient knowledge combined with a spark capable of predicting the future. In me, who was taught the subtleties of strength and weakness, and that weakness was nothing to laugh at, since weakness meant that we must acknowledge the strength of others to help.

Yes... Dahlia was still here, in the memory carved into my spark.

A flicker appeared as dusk approached, and I sat up straighter. I thought that, perhaps...

“Did you miss me?”

I barely turned around to acknowledge the question. “Of course. But you'll come back.”

Nothing stays dead on this planet, after all.

Fini.