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TTFC AU: Pirates of the Rusted Seas

Summary:

Inspired by a brainstorm and ongoing roleplay session in the TTFC Discord server!

(P.S. Join Us!! Link Here)

 

The year is 2125. The tensions on the planet have never been higher, until End-Day. We join our fleet of survivors 6 months post End-Day, gathered under the flag of Captain Trion.

Chapter 1: We Set Forth for No King's Orders

Chapter Text

“This bickering is pointless. We need to move together, or we’ll all be adrift.”

The aged voice of the librarian sounded across the hall, silencing the bickering sailors like a gunshot. All conversation ceased instantly as every pair of eyes turned toward the speaker. Autobots and Decepticons alike sat up and paid attention when Captain Trion spoke. The ever-present and ever-nervous Orion stood at his side, juggling a precarious stack of papers that threatened to topple with every nervous twitch.
With a frustrated snarl, Captain Megatron released the lapels of the young Admiral Optimus, freshly elected leader of the Autobot crews and ships.

“Speak, Captain Trion. We’ll listen.”

He dropped into a chair beside his first lieutenant, his heavy frame landing with a thud that made the seat creak in protest. Ignoring the simpering of the devious backstabber seated next to him, he crossed his arms, scowling.

Admiral Optimus, with a wary stare toward the former soldier, gave the only response he deemed appropriate—a silent nod of agreement to his mentor, signaling his intent to listen.
“It’s in all of our best interests. We’ll listen too.”

“Thank you, my friends. Orion, Shatter, would you mind?”
At the wizened man’s word, the two younger adults hurried to set up the projector, their movements efficient but tinged with nerves under the scrutiny of the room. A crude map and blueprint flickered to life on the screen, showing what appeared to be the framework of a floating city. The word "Met—" was barely visible beneath a hasty scribble, suggesting its original name had been deliberately obscured.

“It is time to pool our resources. We need to move as one to survive this. Shatter, could you please inform the fleet of what we need?”

The engineer strode into the center of the room, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards, kilt swaying with each purposeful step. They cleared their throat, gesturing to the core of the blueprint with a calloused hand.
“The first and most crucial component will be us securing the oil rig. We know of two semi-submersible offshore drilling rigs in the Gulf, and neither will be an easy task to secure. First, there’s the Liege Maximo. She’s moored somewhere in the Badlands but was last spotted being overrun by the fleet of Junk.”

With a quick motion, they brought up a 3D wireframe of the aforementioned rig, its spindly towers jutting into the air like skeletal fingers.

“On the other hand, we have the Solus. She’s a former drilling rig turned into a floating repair dock that was abandoned by the Navy a few months before End-Day. She suffered some serious structural damage when the Prima was destroyed while berthed in her. She’s abandoned in the shallows near the Iacon Harbour and is known to be in a repairable condition.”

Another gesture conjured a larger wireframe, this time of a battered and listing dock. The image lingered on the warped steel where the Prima’s detonation had scarred its structure.
Orion stepped forward to join Shatter, their trembling hands clutching a rolled-up map. She smiled weakly at Trion, who nodded in encouragement.
“W-We have a confirmed location for both vessels, as of the last scouting run by the Autobot Wreckers—”

Before she could finish, the room erupted into chaos as the Wreckers burst into raucous cheers, their voices loud enough to rattle the windows. Shatter sighed loudly, their shoulders slumping as they rubbed their temples in exasperation. They glared at Admiral Optimus, who held up his hands in a futile attempt to calm his unruly scouting party, glancing back at Shatter with a helpless shrug.
The engineer rolled their eyes again, reaching into their belt and pulling out a hefty knife. With a swift motion, they hurled the blade into the table in front of the Wreckers, where it embedded itself an inch deep, quivering ominously next to Wheeljack’s hand.
“Shut up and listen, Autobugs. Orion’s speaking.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, the Wreckers shrinking slightly under Shatter’s glare. Orion smiled gratefully at their friend, her confidence buoyed by their intervention.
“- yes. The Wreckers successfully confirmed that the Liege Maximo has been relocated to the Sea of Rust and is likely to have been stripped of anything of use or value. Wreck-Gar’s crews are nothing if not efficient.”
Brutally efficient.”
Shatter murmured, their fingertips brushing absently over the faint outline of a scar, barely visible beneath the intricate tattoos adorning their forearms. With a sharp inhale, they stood up, their boots clicking softly against the floor as they walked to stand beside Orion, their posture firm and arms crossed protectively over their chest.

“Obviously, some are more suited for one of these missions than the other. Some will not be going on either of the missions.”
Shatter’s gaze flicked sideways, locking briefly with Captain Trion’s before shifting to Orion. The unspoken intent behind the glance was clear: certain individuals needed to be kept far from the frontlines.
“Besides.”
The gravelly voice of the Decepticon leader rang out, commanding attention as he rose to his feet. The fabric of his shirt stretched taut over his muscled torso, a testament to the strength that made him a formidable figure in any room. “The Nemesis is far better suited to hunt down and capture a moving target than refloat a scrapheap. We’ll return with Liege Maximo.”

“And the Ark is more than capable of repairing and refloating the Solus.”
Admiral Optimus’s voice was quieter in comparison but carried a steady conviction. His eyes sought out the Engineer, his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question. “Shatter, would we require both rigs?”

“Require? No.”
Shatter uncrossed their arms, their hands moving to rest on their hips as they tilted their head, their expression thoughtful. “But both rigs will quite considerably speed up our progress on establishing the flotilla. If you’re both capable of acquiring one each, the benefits would be massive.”

“Then it would seem you have your missions.”
Captain Trion’s voice cut through the chatter, its resonating hum silencing the room with an air of finality. He paused, his piercing gaze sweeping over the gathered sailors, lingering on their conflicted expressions. “But know this, know it well. We’ve skirted what remained of the law before, but we follow this path, and… we’d officially be Pirates.”

He let the word hang in the air, heavy with meaning. For many in the room, the term was a dagger to the pride they had carried through years of service. The weight of it pressed down like a stormfront, stirring uneasy murmurs among the sailors who had once sworn to fight against piracy.

“Not a word most of us here take lightly.”
Trion’s tone was solemn, his weathered features lined with the burden of the decision they faced. The room fell into a hushed stillness, the gravity of their situation settling over them like a shroud.

“Be that as it may—”
The young Autobot Admiral stated, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he stood. His posture was rigid, his shoulders squared, and his visage set in unyielding determination. “—It’s our duty to do whatever it takes to secure a safer future for all. For only together can we rise against these mounting odds. Sailing through the rough, ‘til All Are One is no longer just a saying. It’s a reality.”

“Such heroic nonsense.”
The gravelly voice of the Decepticon Commander rumbled through the room like distant thunder, cutting through the Admiral’s idealism with a sharp edge of disdain. He leaned forward slightly, his hulking frame dwarfing the younger leader as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, the movement making the seams of his jacket groan under the strain. “My sailors will do whatever they need to do to secure the future for us all. With or without pretentious speeches.”
His crimson eyes rolled skyward in an exaggerated display of exasperation, his lips curling into a sardonic smirk as he glanced dismissively at the younger male.
“Let’s get the nerds their equipment. Starscream! Have my ship ready to sail.”

Chapter 2: Work It, Make It, Do It, Makes Us

Summary:

This Chapter is an Autobot-focussed chapter, following our crew as they sail off to refloat & recover the Solus, prewar floating repair centre.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Optimus stood quietly at his position on the Ark’s Bridge, one arm bracing himself against the console as the great ship crested another wave. The bow rose sharply, water cascading off its sides, before rushing down into the trough and slamming against the next swell with a deafening roar. The vibrations rattled through the ship, a constant reminder of the ocean's unrelenting power. He’d sailed in worse storms, but not for some time—and certainly not under such precarious circumstances.
As if echoing his thoughts, the familiar voice of his helmsman rumbled from behind him, thick with a Scots brogue. Ironhide, his ginger beard damp with the condensation of the stormy air, kept a steady hand on the wheel, muscles taut as he fought the ship’s erratic movements.

“I’ve nae seen a sturm this ragin’ in a guid while, Admiral. The Ark’s holdin’ fine, but yer crew’s strugglin’. Doc Ratchet’s nae had this much work since the war.”
Optimus turned toward him, his expression calm despite the chaos outside. “We’ll weather the storm, Ironhide. Closer we get to the Bay of Iacon, the better the weather should turn. How’s she handling?”
He moved to stand beside the helmsman, his boots clicking against the metal floor as he gripped a handrail firmly for balance. The ship see-sawed violently, throwing spray against the pilothouse windows as the gale howled around them.
“Like a cat wi’ its tail trodden, Admiral. Fair erratic,” Ironhide replied, his tone grim but steady as his hands worked the wheel with precision honed by years at sea.

They both peered through the rain-streaked windows, the glass rattling with every gust of wind. Sheets of water obscured their view, but the storm showed no signs of easing. The world beyond was a maelstrom of gray and white.
Suddenly, the relative quiet of their tense vigil was broken by a clattering commotion. The door from the stairs below burst open with a bang, letting in a gust of damp air and muffled noise. Sunny, their exuberant young Naval Architect, tumbled through, their momentum carrying them halfway up the stairwell. As the Ark lurched again, the Architect lost their footing and rolled the rest of the way, landing unceremoniously against Optimus’ legs.
“Oof—Who stuck a tree here—OH! Sorry, Cap’n!” Sunny exclaimed, scrambling awkwardly to right themselves. “I’ve, um… finished drawin’ up yer refloatin’ plans with Wheeljack’s help. We reckon we can have the Solus floatin’ and seaworthy again in a day—two at most, dependin’ on this st—EEK—!”

Their words were cut off as another massive wave struck the bow, causing the ship to lurch violently and sending Sunny sprawling back into Optimus’ legs.
“Sunny, it will never cease to amaze me how you can design a ship, but struggle so much when aboard one,” the Admiral quipped, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

He reached down and helped the younger one to their feet, steadying them and guiding them toward a grab rail. “Hold on to this before you get washed away entirely.”
Sunny grinned sheepishly, gripping the rail tightly as Optimus turned back to Ironhide. “Where is Cosmos? We may need our navigator to… navigate—!”

His sentence was interrupted as the ship tilted sharply again, the storm unleashing another wave that cascaded over the decks, the roar echoing through the pilothouse.

“The star? He’s gone up top,” Ironhide replied, his tone matter-of-fact despite the storm’s fury. “Said he sees clearer frae up there.”
Optimus sighed, bracing himself against the wall as he attempted to shout orders through the comm system. But the cacophony of the storm drowned out his words, leaving him to pick up fragments of exasperation from above. Eventually, all that came through clearly was a sharp, frustrated, “—meRDE—!” followed by the sound of heavy bootfalls on the roof of the pilothouse. Moments later, the door to the bridge wing creaked open, letting in the sound of pouring rain and howling wind. Their rugged second helmsperson, Cosmos, stepped into the room, water dripping from every part of their drenched uniform.

"Admiral, I said zat ze storm, it seems to be clearing ahead," Cosmos began, their voice smooth yet firm, each word laced with their strong accent. "Ze clouds, zey are breaking, and ze wind, it shifts. If it holds, I believe we will reach ze Bay of Iacon by dawn. Of course," they added with a slight shrug, brushing water from their sleeves and gesturing toward the horizon, "zat is assuming nozing changes in ze night. Nature, she is… unpredictable, non?"
Ironhide snorted, his laugh low and humorless as he adjusted the wheel again. “Ah couldnae agree more, Admiral. By ma reckonin’, we’ll be out o’ this in a few hours, wi’ a bit o’ luck. Mind ye, storms like this can turn on ye faster than a bairn after sweets, so I’d nae get too comfortable just yet.”

“Maintain your course, Ironhide. I have faith in you and Cosmos to see us through this,” Optimus replied with steady confidence. He turned back to Sunny, who was still gripping the grab rail like a lifeline.
“I will go and check on the Engineering team,” he said, gesturing toward the stairs. “And hope the Wreckers haven’t caused too much mayhem in our workshops.”
Sunny nodded, following the Admiral as he led the way down into the ship’s belly.

As they descended deeper into the ship, the familiar creaks and groans of the Ark accompanied their every step, an old sailor’s symphony that spoke of her age and resilience. Optimus knew these sounds well, each one a reassurance that the ship was enduring the storm. But soon, there were other sounds—unfamiliar ones. Thuds, metallic clangs, and what could only be described as raucous cheers.
The Admiral sighed heavily, exchanging a glance with Sunny, who looked both curious and apprehensive. The unmistakable energy of the Wreckers was in full swing.

The noise grew louder as they approached the Workshops, punctuated by the sound of something heavy slamming into the walls. Stepping through the door with one hand firmly gripping the scruff of Sunny’s jacket to keep the shorter Architect from being bowled over by the ship’s swaying motion, Optimus froze mid-step, his eyes narrowing at the scene before him.
The so-called team of “professionals” was anything but. The spacious workshop had been turned into an impromptu arena for chaos. Tools and equipment were scattered across every surface, some of which had been repurposed into crude makeshift barriers. The culprits? A squad of burly sailors known for their knack for destruction: the Wreckers.
Wheeljack, ever the first to notice, turned from where he’d been leaning casually against a workbench. He snapped off a cheery salute, utterly unbothered by the Admiral’s sudden arrival.
“Evenin’, Admiral! What brings you down here—”

His words were abruptly cut short as Springer lobbed a ball—if it could be called that—straight at Bulkhead. The large sailor ducked instinctively but lost his balance, careening straight into Wheeljack. Both went sprawling to the back of the room in a clattering heap, to the uproarious laughter of Springer and Seaspray.
Optimus raised a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice, when it came, carried the weight of disappointment that even the Wreckers had to respect.
“Wreckers!” he barked, his tone cutting through the din like a whip. “What, in the name of all things sensible, possessed you to play your lob-ball game in a confined space—during a seastorm?”

The laughter died down immediately, replaced by a sheepish silence. A voice—probably Springer’s—finally piped up, muttering, “It seemed like a good idea at the time, Boss!”
Optimus exhaled slowly, rubbing his face with one hand in a gesture that spoke of long-suffering patience. He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on the equipment they’d managed to damage in their reckless antics.
“Doctor Ratchet already has enough on her plate without needing to patch you all up for concussions,” he said firmly, his eyes sweeping over the guilty-looking sailors. “I don’t usually mind how you unwind, but I must insist you stop playing lob-ball inside the ship. If the weather permits, you’re welcome to take it to the deck—but definitely not inside, and especially not in the workshops. These spaces are essential, and we needed that.”

He pointed to a heavy winch, its housing bent and cracked, clearly a casualty of their game. A few of the Wreckers exchanged awkward glances, murmuring apologies under their breath.
“Dismissed,” Optimus said sharply, his tone brooking no argument. “All of you—except Bulkhead and Wheeljack.”

The rest of the Wreckers scrambled to leave, their usual bravado temporarily tempered by the Admiral’s displeasure. Once the room was quieter, Optimus turned to the two he’d singled out, gesturing for Sunny to join them.
“We need to discuss the plans for refloating the Solus,” he said, his tone softening slightly but still carrying the authority of command. “Sunny, bring them up to speed.”
As the young Architect began explaining the designs and adjustments needed, Optimus leaned against the edge of a workbench, watching the storm play out both outside and within the ship.

Notes:

As always, inspired by characters dreamed up by the fabulous folks in TTFC. Thanks for reading!
(P.S. Join Us!! Link Here)

Chapter 3: Now wouldn't you, Barracuda?

Summary:

Let's get the 'Con Squad introduced! Your core members are all here, folks!

As always, thanks to the TTFC folks for their love and help with this story! (Join Us!! Yo Ho Ho)

Chapter Text

The sleek bow of the Nemesis carved through the storm-tossed seas with an irreverent grace, slicing through those towering waves as though they were no more than dust in her path. The shining steel behemoth could be said to almost laugh in the face of the storm, her reinforced hull shouldering the fury of the elements without complaint. Her twin turrets gleamed on the foredeck; their barrels aimed fore and slightly skyward as if begging an obstacle to impede their path.
At the helm, Second Mate Soundwave stood – although perhaps, swayed would be a better term. Despite the ship’s speed, their helmsman was happily grooving around, dancing back and forth while maintaining one hand on the wheel. The faint glow of his personal console illuminated his visored face as he manipulated the ship’s systems and adjusted their course with precision – a chaotic whirl, but one well practiced. Around him, the bridge hummed with energy—not just the operational buzz of the crew but the music pumping through the PA system.

Soundwave had his own, very unique, brand of leadership. While others shouted orders or barked commands, he set the mood with his innate sense of rhythm, addicted to spinning live remixes of prewar electronica and club hits to accompany the Nemesis' progress. The latest track blared with confidence, the lyrics resonating down the metallic halls:
"Comme te vene 'ncapa 'e di': 'I love you'? Pa pa l'americano!"

The sound filled the bridge and beyond, infecting even the storm outside with a strange, manic cheerfulness. Soundwave danced eagerly as he worked, his movements fluid and deliberate, the music his playful companion. To the rest of the crew, this was more than a treat; it was a ritual. When Soundwave played, the crew felt invincible - and worked twice as hard. Perhaps that was the reason their usually stoic leader slackened the reins whenever Soundwave had the conn.

High above, Frenzy and Rumble echoed the energy of the music in the crow’s nest. Perched atop the tripod mast, the two kept a sharp watch on the storm’s horizon while dancing in sync with the beat. Their moves were chaotic yet oddly coordinated, punctuated by bouts of playful shoving that nearly toppled one or the other from their perch. But their laughter rang out loud and clear, even over the wind and rain. Despite the tempest, they were having the time of their lives.

Meanwhile, on the rear flight deck, the Decepticon Seeker fleet buzzed with activity. Jets gleamed under the deck lights, rainwater cascading off their polished fuselages as ground crews scrambled to complete final checks. First Lieutenant and Air Commander Starscream strode between the rows of aircraft, his sharp eyes scrutinizing every detail. His pristine white-and-red flight suit, slowly soaking through at the edges, clung to his wiry frame as he moved with an elegant, predatory grace.

Starscream paused to inspect his personal F-16, running a gloved hand along its nose with an air of proud affection before turning his attention to the crew.

“Skywarp! Thundercracker!” he called out, his tone sharp yet tinged with playful sarcasm. “If you two spent half as much time checking your planes as you do pranking each other, we’d have been airborne an hour ago.”

The Twins, as the crew affectionately called them, responded with their usual grins and banter. Thundercracker rolled his eyes. “Relax, Screamer, she’s in top shape. I’d bet my wings on it.”

Skywarp snickered, adjusting his helmet. “Besides, if anyone’s gonna outfly you, it’ll be me—again.”
Starscream smirked, feigning exasperation. “Oh, please. You couldn’t outfly me if I were missing both wings.”

Their laughter was short-lived, however, as their collective gazes drifted toward the rear hangar. There, under the clinically white lights, stood the imposing figure of their leader, Commander Megatron.

The Decepticon Commander was examining his personal aircraft—a heavily armored attack helicopter. Beside him stood the Chief Engineer, Shockwave, the pair engaged in a hushed discussion. Shockwave’s tall, angular frame moved with calculated precision as he gestured to a schematic on a handheld device. Megatron nodded occasionally, his powerful hands testing the tension on the rotor blades and stroking down the hull plating of the Heli almost reverently. His expression was one of focused intensity, a stark contrast to the more relaxed energy on the rest of the Nemesis.

Starscream lingered for a moment longer, his crimson eyes narrowing as he observed Megatron and Shockwave deep in their discussion. The faint hum of the helicopter’s systems starting up reached his ears, a low thrum promising swift action. Satisfied, Starscream turned on his heel, his boots clicking against the wet deck as he faced his Seekers.

“Come on, you two,” he snapped, his voice cutting sharply over the din of the storm and distant engines. “Get those birds ready. If the storm clears soon, I want us in the air before sunrise. The sooner we pin down the Maximo’s current position, the sooner we can move.”

Skywarp saluted with exaggerated flair, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. “You’ve got it, Screamer. Don’t get too comfortable without us.”

Thundercracker, ever the pragmatist, simply nodded, already focusing on his pre-flight checks. “We’ll be airborne and circling before you can blink.”

The three F-16s stood like sleek predators on the deck, their engines roaring to life one by one. The storm’s ferocity seemed to retreat in the face of the Seekers’ sheer power, the rain streaming off their canopies as the aircraft growled in readiness. With a deafening screech, they surged forward, cutting through the downpour as they ascended into the dark sky. Their formation was tight, disciplined, and swift, vanishing into the stormclouds within moments, their mission clear: scout, locate, and report.

Back in one of the main hangars, the Combaticons, designated Marine Unit One, were hard at work preparing for their own part of the mission. Unlike the Seekers, their focus wasn’t on the chase but on securing the Maximo once it was found.

Blast-Off, the team’s Engineer and Pilot, was perched atop their VTOL aircraft, Bruticus. The tiltrotor vessel gleamed under the hangar lights, its blades momentarily still as the pilot meticulously checked every system. His teammate, Vortex, the unit’s weapons specialist, moved around the craft with frenetic energy, double-checking the payloads and fine-tuning the mounted weaponry. The pair worked in tandem, their familiarity with each other’s methods apparent in the efficient way they communicated with barely a word exchanged.

“Don’t skimp on the diagnostics, Vortex,” Blast-Off called, his voice steady but firm as he tightened a bolt on one of the stabilizers. “If we hit turbulence mid-flight, I don’t want to be holding this beast together with duct tape and hope.”

Vortex chuckled darkly, a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he tested a turret. “Relax, Blast-Off. I’d never let you crash… at least, not without giving you fair warning first.”

Nearby, Onslaught, the team’s leader, coordinated the loading efforts with Haul, a muscle-bound logistics expert who moved crates of munitions with ease. Together, they secured the gear, ensuring every weapon, tool, and supply was in place for the operation ahead. Despite the storm raging outside, the team worked like a well-oiled machine, their movements precise and confident. They had been a unit for years before the war, and even the collapse of civilization hadn’t shaken their bond.

But there was a gap in their ranks, an absence they all felt but didn’t speak of. Their fifth member had been lost in the chaos of the End Days, and though they pressed on, the shadow of their comrade’s absence lingered in their every action.

As the final crate was secured, a roar from the flight deck signaled the Seekers’ departure. The three fighters screeched down the rain-slicked runway, their engines leaving trails of heat and vapor as they soared into the stormy sky. With the runway clear, ground crews sprang into action, moving Bruticus and Megatron’s helicopter into position. The VTOL’s engines whined to life, its twin rotors slowly spinning up as Blast-Off and Vortex climbed aboard, the aircraft now fully prepped for deployment.

Megatron appeared from the hangar’s shadows, his powerful stride purposeful as he approached his helicopter. Shockwave followed close behind, still tapping on his datapad, likely running final simulations for the upcoming mission. The Decepticon leader cast a quick, approving glance at Bruticus before climbing into his own aircraft.

Above it all, the Nemesis remained an unstoppable force, defying the storm as it pressed on. The ship’s crew moved with synchronized precision, from the watchful eyes in the crow’s nest to the diligent work in the hangars. Each member played their role with a fierce determination, their efforts harmonizing into a singular purpose.

All the while, Soundwave’s music continued to echo through the corridors, weaving an unyielding rhythm that bound them together. The steady beat of electronica blended with the storm’s roar, creating a symphony of order and chaos, as the Nemesis surged ever closer to its goal.